HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 


Fa,,,ons  riayers-Lasky  Corporation.  Mary  Piekford-Artcra/t  Picture 

JEAN  PRACTICES  ART. 


HOW  COULD  YOU, 
JEAN? 


BY 

ELEANOR  HOYT  BRAINERD 

n 


Illustrated  with  Scenes  from  the 
ARTCRAFT  MOTION  PICTURE 
STARRING    MARY   PICKFORD 

Released  by 
FAMOUS  PLAYERS-LASKY  CORPORATION 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CoMPANT 

All  rights  reserved,  including  thai  of 

translation  into  foreign  languagesr 

including  the  Scandinavian 


OOPTBIOHT,  1917,  BT  THE  CHOWZLL  PUBLISHING  COUP/4 
UNDEB  THE  TITLE  "THE  INEXIGIBL£8" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN  ? 


958939 


HOW  COULD  YOU   JEAN? 

CHAPTER  I 

BABS,  dear,  do  I  look  like  a  parasite?" 

Barbara  Herrick  looked  at  the  girl  on  the  window 
seat  and  laughed. 

"Jean,  dear,"  she  mimicked,  "you  do  not!" 

"Well,  there  you  are!" 

Jean  Mackaye  threw  out  her  hands  in  a  swift  little 
gesture  of  finality. 

"It's  angelic  of  you  to  want  me  to  live  with  you, 
Babs,  and  it's  superangelic  of  Tom  to  back  you  up  in 
it.  I  suspect  you  of  using  thumbscrews  on  him." 

"He  was  perfectly  delighted  with  the  idea,"  vowed 
Tom's  wife;  and  her  eyes  met  her  friend's  eyes 
steadily,  though  a  tell-tale  colour  crept  into  her 
cheeks. 

Jean  leaned  forward  and  kissed  one  of  the  flushed 
cheeks. 

"You'd  make  a  magnificent  liar,  Babs,  if  you  could 
control  your  circulation,  but  isn't  it  enough  that  Tom 
has  been  made  to  see  the  light  at  all?  No  other  man 

3 


4  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

vx)uld  have  been  coaxed  or  bullied  into  agreeing  to 
such  a  plan.  Some  day  I'll  try  to  tell  you  how  I  feel 
about  your  wanting  me,  but  I'd  howl  like  a  dervish  if 
I  tried  to  talk  about  it  now,  and  this  isn't  my  crying 
day.  To-day  I'm  a  cool,  hard-headed,  businesslike 
young  person,  looking  for  a  job." 

"  A  job  ?  "  echoed  little  Mrs.  Herrick.  "  What  kind 
of  a  job?" 

"Exactly.  That's  what  I've  been  asking  myself  for 
three  days  and  four  nights.  I've  gone  over  and  over 
all  the  nice  genteel  things  that  perfectly  useless,  in- 
competent ladies  in  reduced  circumstances  are  willing 
to  do — teaching,  you  know,  and  Library  work  and 
being  social  secretary  or  companion,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  but — I  don't  know  enough  to  teach  anybody 
anything  except  spending  money,  and  a  librarian, 
nowadays,  has  to  have  a  library  school  training, 
and  there  are  999  social  secretaries  to  every  woman 
who  needs  one  or  can  afford  one,  and  as  for  tying  up 
to  the  decrepit  or  peevish — well,  I  decided  I'd 
rather  do  something  that  wasn't  in  the  least  genteel; 
but,  do  you  know,  Babs,  even  when  I  flung  gentility 
to  the  winds,  I  couldn't  see  my  way.  It  wasn't 
until  this  morning  that  I  decided  what  I  would 
do." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  rammed  her  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  her  silk  sweater,  squared  her  shoulders  and 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  5 

looked  down  at  the  girl  in  the  big  chair  with  an  ex- 
pression half  humorous,  half  defiant. 

"Hold  fast,  Honey,"  she  urged.     "Don't  scream 
or  faint.     I'm  going  to  be  a  cook  lady  !  "  . 

Barbara    Herrick    gave    a    startled    gasp,    then 
laughed  uncertainly. 

"You're  joking,  Jean." 

"Never  was  more  serious  in  my  life!" 
;  Jean  --  " 


"But  me  no  buts,  child.  I'm  adamant.  There's 
just  one  thing  I  know  how  to  do.  That's  cooking. 
Thank  Heaven  father  had  an  old-fashioned  theory 
that  every  girl  must  learn  how  to  cook,  and  clean  an 
ice  box,  and  save  drippings,  even  if  she  didn't  know 
anything  else.  So  I  had  all  that  rubbed  into  me 
when  I  was  sixteen,  and  I've  fooled  with  it  more  or 
less  ever  since.  I  like  it." 

"But,  dear,  you  couldn't  possibly  — 

"Oh,  yes,  I  could." 

She  was  flushed,  determined,  eager,  lovely,  and  her 
friend's  eyes  adored,  while  her  lips  protested. 

"You  don't  realize  what  domestic  service  is,  dear. 
It  would  cut  you  off  from  everything  and  everybody." 

"And  that's  a  crime,  Barbara  Herrick  —  but  it's 
what  I  want  —  for  a  while." 

"But  you'd  have  to  put  up  with  all  sorts  of  horrid 
things.  You'd  be  a  perfect  slave.'  ' 


6  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Not  at  all."  The  potential  cook  lady  dropped  her 
defiant  air  and  laughed  at  the  distressed  face  up- 
turned to  her.  "The  domestic  servant  is  the  only 
surviving  autocrat,  Babs.  I've  picked  out  the  pro- 
fession because  I've  always  had  my  own  way  and  I 
want  to  go  on  having  it.  Now  honestly,  is  your  Sa- 
rah a  slave?" 

Sarah's  mistress  made  an  ineffectual  effort  to  re- 
tain her  gravity  and  giggled  weakly. 

There !  You  see !  Sarah  rules  you  and  Tom  with 
a  rod  of  iron.  You  simple  grovel  before  her.  You 
wouldn't  dare  contradict  her." 

"She's  such  a  gorgeous  cook,"  explained  Barbara. 

"So  am  I." 

"And  she  does  make  us  so  comfy." 

"7'm  going  to  make  some  deserving  family  comfy — 
I'm  going  to  look  around  and  select  a  pleasant,  rather 
helpless  elderly  couple,  and  then  I  am  going  to  run 
that  couple  according  to  my  own  method.  I'll  be 
gentle  with  them.  I'll  humour  them,  I'll  make  them 
more  comfortable  than  they've  ever  been  before,  but 
I  shan't  allow  them  to  have  wills  of  their  own.  The 
poor  dears  will  be  wax  in  my  hands.  I  can  hardly 
wait  to  get  at  them." 

She  was  smiling  gayly,  but  there  was  resolution  in 
the  brown  eyes,  in  the  firm  chin,  in  every  line  of  the 
well-poised,  vigorous  young  body. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  7 

"Oh,  Jean;  you— it's  awful!" 

"Don't  cry,  Babs,  don't.  I'm  not  bluffing.  I'm 
cheerful  inside.  Truly  I  am.  I  was  perfectly  miser- 
able at  first,  but  since  I  thought  of  this  way  out,  I've 
been  tremendously  interested  and  excited.  I  know  I 
can  make  it  go.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones;  and  it  will  be 
such  a  lark  to  put  it  through. 

"Do  you  remember  that  quiet  Mr.  Hollister — at 
Mary  Pratt's?  Mining  and  railroad  man  with  the  big 
jaw  and  the  nice  eyes  and  the  bad  manners?  Well, 
he  asked  me  what  I  did  with  myself,  and  when  I  tried 
to  tell  him  it  sounded  so  silly  that  I  laughed  and  so 
did  he,  but  he  said  it  was  too  bad  I  was  wasting  my- 
self— that  he  rather  thought  I  had  the  makings  and 
that  there  was  no  fun  like  tackling  a  real  job  and 
putting  it  through.  Maybe  he  was  right ! " 

"But  you've  always  been  awfully  happy,"  Bar- 
bara protested. 

Jean  nodded. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  While  father  lived,  everything 
seemed  all  right.  He  didn't  have  much  time  for  me, 
butane  let  me  do  about  as  I  pleased,  and  I  couldn't  re- 
member mother;  so  I  didn't  miss  her.  Then  when 
father  died  and  I  went  to  live  with  Uncle  John,  I  was 
at  the  age  when  a  girl  can't  help  being  happy.  Sor- 
row simply  won't  stick. 

"I  didn't  like  Uncle  John  but  he  didn't  interfere 


8  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

with  me,  and  I  suppose  I'd  have  gone  rocking  along 
indefinitely  if  he  hadn't  lost  all  my  money  along  with 
his  own  and  then  died  and  escaped  the  mess. 

"  There  wasn't  much  of  anything  left,  you  know — 
just  enough  to  pay  my  debts — and  there  wasn't  any- 
body that  belonged.  There  was  just  me  and  I  wasn't 
much  of  a  comfort  to  myself.  Fact  is,  I'm  ashamed, 
Babs.  I  don't  amount  to  a  row  of  pins,  but  I  do  know 
how  to  cook.  That's  the  only  thing  Dad  ever  in- 
sisted upon  my  learning  and  it's  my  one  valuable 
asset.  I  am  going  to  use  it.  Of  course  I  realize  it 
means  cutting  loose  from  the  people  I  know.  You 
and  I  will  write  and  keep  hi  touch,  but  we  won't  see 
each  other  and  no  one  except  you  is  to  know — y ou  and 
Tom.  I'll  just  drop  out.  I  can  say  I'm  going  out  to 
friends  in  the  West  or  in  New  Zealand,  or  Timbuctoo. 
Then  I'll  lose  myself  right  here  in  New  York,  and 
everybody  will  soon  stop  asking  questions  and  forget. 

"After  I've  proved  to  myself  that  I'm  not  a  help- 
less Persian  cat  sort  of  person — that  I'm  a  real 
human,  and  can  make  my  way  among  humans,  and 
after  I've  saved  enough  money  to  carry  me  through  a 
year  or  so,  I'll  bob  up  from  the  social  depths  and  train 
myself  for  something  dressier  than  housework." 

"Tom  and  I  would  love "  Mrs.  Tom  began 

breathlessly. 

"Of  course  I  know  you'd  love  to  lend  me  the  money 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  9 

for  the  training.  Bless  you  both  for  a  pair  of 
cherubs!  But  how  would  I  know  that  I  could  ever 
pay  you  back?  No,  I'm  going  to  earn  that  money. 
Some  unsuspecting  and  incapable  housewife  is  going 
to  have  a  pearl  of  great  price  wished  on  her— at  once; 
no,  to-morrow.  To-day  I'm  going  to  buy  work 
clothes  and  a  black  mohair  for  dress  up,  and  my  own 
caps  and  aprons.  There  isn't  the  mistress  living  that 
I'd  trust  to  buy  caps  for  me.  I've  always  longed  to 
wear  them. 

"Barbara  Herrick,  stop  wailing  like  a  banshee  over 
me.  I'm  not  unhappy.  I've  a  sneaking  conviction 
that  the  best  of  my  life  is  just  beginning."  The  pros- 
pective cook  lady  turned  toward  a  mirror  that  hung 
against  the  wall,  studied  her  reflection  critically,  and 
nodded  approval.  "I'll  be  rather  nice  in  a  cap, 
Babs,"  she  said  contentedly,  "one  of  the  crisp, 
perky  kind,  and  a  waitress's  apron,  the  round, 
frilled  sort  with  a  bib.  Heaven  help  the  elderly  gen- 
tleman unless  he's  blind  or  very  absent-minded  as 
well  as  elderly.  Maybe  I'd  better  select  a  widow  and 
take  no  chances.  I'd  hate  to  break  up  my  employer's 
family,  but  as  to  butchers'  boys  and  icemen  and 
janitors " 

"That's  just  it!"  sobbed  Barbara.  "You  could 
marry  anybody!" 

Jean  leaned  over,  took  her  friend's  shoulders  in 


10  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

her  two  strong  hands,  and  gave  the  mournful  little 
figure  a  gentle  shake. 

"You're  flattering  but  inaccurate,  my  dear,"  she 
said.  "I  could  marry  Wilson  Burky,  or  Dick  Carter, 
or  Seymour  Everall.  Maybe  by  steady  application 
and  unfailing  energy  I  could  marry  Charlie  Weth- 
erby.  They're  all  rich,  but  don't  you  honestly  think 
thirty-five  dollars  a  month  and  no  followers  beats 
married  life  with  any  one  of  the  four?  You  talk  about 
slavery — well,  at  least  I  shan't  sell  myself  into  it. 
I'm  going  where  I  can  give  a  week's  warning  and 
quit!  Babs — Babs,  dear!  Do  turn  up  the  corners 
of  your  mouth  and  be  a  sport!" 

The  small  woman  blew  her  nose  violently  and 
achieved  a  watery  smile. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  with  a  pathetic  little  wob- 
ble in  her  voice.  "If  you  will  you  will,  and  I'm  with 
you.  So's  Tom — or  anyway  he  will  be;  but  if  any- 
thing happens,  if  you're  sick  or  unhappy  or  need 
anything,  you'll  come  straight  home  to  us,  won't 

you?" 

"It's  a  promise."  Jean  spoke  lightly,  but  there 
was  a  wobble  in  her  own  voice.  Friends  who  stand 
by  when  one's  world  crumbles  away  are  wonderful 
things. 

"It's  a  promise,  Babchen,"  she  repeated,  more 
steadily.  "  Now  we'll  dress,  and  you'll  take  me  out  in 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  11 

your  car  to  buy  clothes  for  a  respectable  cook 
lady." 

Late  that  evening  when  Sarah,  the  tyrant,  was 
safely  in  bed,  Tom  Herrick  shamelessly  kissed  a 
radiant  Young  Person  wearing  black  mohair  and  a 
frilled  apron  and  the  sauciest  of  caps. 

"Isn't  she  too  darling,  Tom?"  his  wife  asked  rap- 
turously. 

He  looked  at  the  Young  Person  and  laughed. 
"My  dear,"  he  said,  "she  is.  She  is  altogether  too 
darling.  No  sensible  married  woman  would  con- 
sider hiring  her.  It's  a  widow  for  yours,  Jean,  and  if 
she  has  a  bachelor  friend,  he's  a  dead  duck." 


CHAPTER  H 

HANNAH  JOHNSON  looked  up  from  an  unsatisfactory 
reference  that  had  come  in  her  morning  mail,  and  saw 
a  vision. 

A  girl  in  a  plain  dark  blue  suit  and  a  demure  but 
highly  becoming  black  hat  was  standing  quietly  be- 
fore her. 

Girls  in  dark  blue  suits  and  black  hats  were  not 
uncommon  in  the  employment  office  but  this  girl 
would  have  been  uncommon  anywhere,  and  the 
Swedish  woman  with  the  broad,  cheerful  face  and  the 
shrewd,  appraising  eyes  recognized  the  fact  at  first 
glance. 

The  Spirit  of  Youth  had  strayed  into  the  bare, 
unlovely  office  on  Fourth  Avenue.  Sweetness  of 
youth,  eagerness  of  youth,  pride  of  youth,  confidence 
of  youth — they  were  all  there  and,  curiously  enough, 
the  woman  behind  the  desk  found  herself  remember- 
ing a  northern  fjord  and  a  summer  day  and  a  boy's 
face  and  a  girl's  will. 

Then  she  came  back  to  the  little  office  with  its  dull 
gray  paint  and  its  stiff,  hard  chairs,  and  its  morning 

12 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  13 

smell  of  wet  dirt  and  soap,  and  to  the  girl  who  seemed 
so  out  of  place  in  the  setting. 

If  she  had  ever  heard  of  the  young  Diana,  she 
might  have  been  reminded  of  her.  As  it  was,  she  made 
a  mental  note  to  the  effect  that  this  stranger  looked 
strong  and  healthy  in  spite  of  being  slender  and  that 
she  had  a  wonderful  complexion.  That  was  her 
first  general  impression.  When  she  came  to  details, 
the  interest  deepened  in  her  eyes  and  she  settled  her 
spectacles  more  firmly  on  the  sketchy  nose  that  in- 
tervened between  her  florid  cheeks. 

"You  want  a  position?"  she  asked  doubtfully. 

It  was  possible,  though  improbable,  that  an  em- 
ployer, by  some  chance,  had  wandered  in  through  the 
employees'  waiting  room  and  a  mistake  would  be 
embarrassing. 

"I'm  looking  for  general  housework  in  a  small 
family,"  said  the  girl. 

She  was  very  clear  and  decisive  about  it.  Her  chin 
was  up,  her  hazel  eyes  met  Mrs.  Johnson's  frankly, 
but  a  faint  tint  of  amusement  lurked  in  the  depths 
of  those  eyes  and  about  her  mouth.  The  agent 
smiled  involuntarily.  It  was  absurd  that  this  ex- 
traordinarily pretty  and  distinguished  looking  young 
girl  should  be  asking  for  a  general  housework  posi- 
tion. 

If  she  had  wanted  to  be  a  lady's  maid,  or  a  parlour 


14  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

maid,  or  a  waitress — but  general  housework!  Still, 
business  was  business. 

"Your  name?" 

"Jean  Mackaye." 

"  You  have  references  of  course?  " 

"Mrs.  Thomas  Herrick,  28  East  Sixty-first  Street." 

"How  about  wages?" 

"  Thirty-five  dollars." 

"You  must  be  competent." 

"I  am."  The  hint  of  amusement  still  lingered 
but  the  girl  was  serenely  self-confident,  and,  after  all, 
youth  did  not  mean  inefficiency.  Moreover,  good 
general  housework  girls  were  few  and  far  between  and 
the  demand  for  them  was  large. 

"You  sit  down  in  the  waiting  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Johnson.  "I'll  telephone  Mrs.  Herrick  and  see  if 
this  reference  is  all  right.  If  any  one  comes  in  that 
you'd  be  likely  to  suit  I'll  send  for  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  girl.  Mrs.  Johnson  won- 
dered why  the  hazel  eyes  were  dancing  as  she  turned 
away. 

It  did  not  seem  amusing  to  her  that  Mrs.  Thomas 
Herrick  should  be  asked  whether  she  knew  one  Jean 
Mackaye  to  be  sober,  honest,  and  competent  to 
handle  general  housework. 

For  an  hour  Jean  sat  in  the  inner  room  with  a 
varied  assortment  of  Scandinavians  punctuated  by 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  15 

occasional  Irish  and  semi-occasional  Germans.  She 
had  never  thought  much  about  house  servants.  One 
had  them.  They  did  the  work  well  and  stayed,  or 
they  failed  to  do  the  work  well  and  went.  Griggsby, 
the  butler,  had  attended  to  all  that.  There  had  been 
a  pretty  Irish  chambermaid  called  Kitty.  Jean  had 
missed  her  when  she  disappeared,  and  had  felt  un- 
happy when  the  girl's  successor  had  said  that  Kitty 
was  in  trouble.  She  had  even  sent  some  money, 
but  it  hadn't  occurred  to  her  to  look  the  girl  up 
and  give  her  anything  more  than  money.  Then 
there  was  Barbara's  Sarah.  Sarah  was  different — a 
personality.  Perhaps  general  housework  servants 
were  all  personalities,  but  the  Herricks  were  the  only 
people  Jean  knew  intimately  who  got  along  with  one 
servant  so  she  couldn't  generalize. 

She  intended  to  be  a  personality  herself;  but,  look- 
ing at  the  women  around  her,  the  rose-coloured  side 
of  domestic  service  dulled  a  little  and  she  felt  a 
twinge  of  apprehension. 

Was  it  the  life  that  had  made  the  women  or  had  the 
women  made  the  life?  There  were  a  few  women 
neatly  dressed,  quiet-mannered,  intelligent  looking; 
but  the  rest — who  was  responsible?  Perhaps  if  the 
women  who  were  served  took  a  warm  human  in- 
terest in  the  women  who  served  them,  perhaps  if  the 
place  where  one  worked  were  a  home;  but  what  could 


16  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

one  do  with  a  cook  like  the  blear-eyed  derelict  in  the 
corner,  or  the  silly-faced,  flashily  dressed  girl  whose 
willow  plume  waved  in  the  breeze  by  the  window,  or 
the  stolid,  dull-eyed  woman  on  the  front  row  of 
chairs,  or  the  loud-voiced,  hard-faced,  coarse-mouthed 
girl  who  was  telling  a  friend  what  she  "up  and  told" 
her  last  employer?  If  only  one  could  catch  them 
young,  very  young.  There  must  be  some  way.  The 
system  must  be  wrong  and  if  one  could  find  out  what 
was  wrong 

"Jean  Mackaye,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson  at  the  door. 

Jean's  socialogical  fumblings  ended  abruptly.  She 
felt  a  sudden  panicky  impulse  to  bolt  through  the 
outer  door  and  escape,  but  she  gripped  her  courage 
hard,  rose,  and  walked  into  the  other  room. 

"This  is  the  girl,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson.  She 
hurried  away  and  Jean  was  left  confronting  a  portly 
woman  with  an  eagle  eye,  a  double  chin,  a  coquettish 
toque,  and  an  enormous  sunburst. 

She  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Jean  realized  that  im- 
mediately and  her  spirits  rose.  It  was  uncertainty 
that  she  had  dreaded. 

"You  look  very  young,"  said  the  toque-crowned 
lady  disapprovingly. 

"It's  because  I  am  young,"  Jean  explained  sweetly. 

"You  wouldn't  want  to  be  gadding  about  all  the 
time?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  17 

"No." 

"And  I  can't  have  young  men  hanging  around." 

The  inference  was  flattering  but  the  announcement 
did  not  seem  to  call  for  a  reply. 

"You  make  good  bread?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"My  husband  likes  home-made  bread.     Pies?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Cake?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"I  hope  you  aren't  wasteful.  I  won't  stand 
waste." 

"You're  quite  right,  madam."  Jean  was  having  a 
beautiful  time,  a  better  time  than  she  had  expected. 
She  hoped  there  would  be  a  great  many  impossible 
ones  before  the  right  one  came. 

"I  might  try  you,"  said  the  ponderous  one  conde- 
scendingly.    "What  wages  do  you  get?" 
\   "Thirty-five  dollars,  madam." 

The  plumes  of  the  toque  shook  violently,  the 
double  chin  quivered. 

"Well,  I  never—         Of  all  the— at  your  age!" 

"Are  there  many  in  family?"  Jean  inquired. 

"Four — but  you  can't  really  expect — thirty-five 
dollars!" 

"And  the  washing  goes  out?" 

"Washing  out!     And  thirty-five  dollars!    You'd 


18  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

expect  to  use  the  parlour,  I  suppose."  Sarcasm 
seethed  in  the  tone. 

"No,  madam,  not  if  I  have  a  large  sunny  room  of 
my  own;  but  I  couldn't  take  on  more  than  two  in 
family.  I'm  sorry.  Good  morning,  madam." 

Civil,  serene,  ignoring  the  snorts  of  rage  that  fol- 
lowed her,  Jean  left  the  room  in  her  best  drawing- 
room  manner. 

Life  was  good.  Life  was  gay.  She  was  finding 
going  out  to  service  tremendously  entertaining. 

To  her  in  a  few  moments  came  Mrs.  Johnson,  a 
worried  look  on  her  face. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  said  to  Mrs.  Blaine,  Jean, 
but  we  can't  have  impertinence,  you  know,"  she  said 
firmly. 

Jean  smiled  at  her,  and  Jean's  smile  was  a  very  en- 
gaging performance.  It  began  in  her  eyes,  breaking  up 
the  surfaces  into  glinting  lights.  Then  it  curled  up  her 
lips  and  overflowed  to  her  cheeks,  bringing  unsuspected 
dimples  into  play  and  wrinkled  up  her  nose  in  an  ab- 
surd, lovable  way;  even  her  hair  seemed  to  wave  mer- 
rily and  to  take  on  a  brighter  gold  in  its  high  lights. 

Hannah  Johnson  relished  the  exhibit  and  relaxed 
into  an  answering  smile. 

"I  wasn't  impertinent,"  Jean  assured  her.  "I 
was  very  polite.  She  doesn't  want  to  pay  thirty- 
five  dollars  or  put  the  washing  out." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  19 

"Most  of  them  don't,"  said  the  agent  dryly. 

"I'm  worth  it." 

Mrs.  Johnson  looked  at  the  girl  keenly  and  smiled 
again. 

"I  don't  know  but  what  you  are — to  the  right  per- 
son," she  admitted. 

"That's  it,"  agreed  Jean. 

"Some  one  with  no  grown  sons,"  supplemented  the 
agent  as  she  went  back  to  her  office. 

Jean  inspected  five  employers  and  found  them  un- 
satisfactory. They  were  not  susceptible  of  training. 
She  was  sure  she  could  never  feel  an  honest  pride  in 
them,  and  the  conditions  offered  were  not  what  they 
should  be,  though  several  of  the  women  were  patheti- 
cally eager  to  pay  thirty-five  dollars  and  send  out  the 
washing. 

The  afternoon  was  almost  gone  when  Mrs.  Bonner 
drifted  into  the  office.  Drifted  is  the  word. 

There  was  nothing  purposeful  about  her.  She 
came  in  with  a  look  of  vague  uncertainty  on  her  gen- 
tle face,  smiled  at  Mrs.  Johnson,  sat  down  by  the 
window,  took  a  letter  out  of  her  bag  and  read  it,  then 
lapsed  into  placid  and  apparently  cheerful  medita- 
tion. 

After  a  time  Mrs.  Johnson,  having  sped  her  other 
clients  on  their  way,  crossed  over  to  the  little  figure 
in  gray. 


20  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"You  want  a  servant,  madam?"  she  asked. 

The  woman  came  back  from  a  far  country,  and 
looked  about  her  with  a  mild  surprise  in  her  soft,  near- 
sighted eyes. 

"Oh,  yes.  This  is  the  intelligence  office.  I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  I 
do  want  a  maid.  I  want  one  very  badly.  I've  had 
one  a  great  many  years.  She  had  to  go  away,  sud- 
denly, to  California.  We  seem  to  be  completely  up- 
set— completely.  It's  very  trying.  If  you  have  a 
maid — a  nice  person — cheerful,  you  know,  and  nice 
looking.  Hannah  wasn't  very  nice  looking.  I've 
often  thought  I'd  have  the  next  one  quite  pretty. 
Have  you  a  pretty  one?  " 

Hannah  Johnson  eyed  the  inconsequential  little 
woman  with  amazement  touched  with  pity. 

"  You  want  a  general  houseworker?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  couldn't  stand  two.  They  interrupt 
so.  Yes,  a  general  houseworker  and  quite  pretty." 

"You'd  like  a  good  cook  I  suppose."  Mrs.  John- 
son strove  hard  to  keep  the  sarcasm  out  of  her 
voice. 

"Yes — yes,  indeed.  She'd  have  to  cook — and 
clean,  you  know — and  things  like  that;  but  the  tele- 
phone and  dumb  waiter  are  the  worst.  I  can't  get 
along  at  all  with  the  dumb  waiter.  If  it  isn't  the 
garbage  it's  the  ice  and  if  it  isn't  the  ice  it's  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  21 

butcher — and  all  that.     She  mustn't  let  me  be  both- 
ered by  the  dumb  waiter." 

"What  wages  do  you  pay,  madam?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     What  wages  do  they  want- 
that  kind?" 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  pay  thirty-five  dollars?" 

"Why,  yes;  we  paid  Hannah  only  thirty  but  then 
as  I  told  you,  she  wasn't  pretty  and  she  didn't  cook 
very  well.  I  rather  think  she  wasn't  clean,  either, 
but  she  stayed  and  she  didn't  fuss  about  any- 
thing." 

Mrs.  Johnson  went  to  the  waiting-room  door  and 
called  Jean  Mackaye. 

"There's  an  elderly  infant  out  here  who  wants 
something  to  look  at,"  she  said  as  Jean  passed 
her.  " I  thought  you'd  fill  that  bill." 

The  little  woman  in  gray  looked  up  as  Jean  stopped 
before  her,  looked  again,  and  smiled. 

"Oh,  you're  a  very  pretty  one,"  she  said  happily. 
"She's  quite  an  intelligent  woman,  isn't  she?  I 
didn't  suppose  she'd  understand  so  well.  When 
could  you  come,  my  dear?" 

It  was  only  through  heroic  self-restraint  that  Jean 
refrained  from  hugging  her,  so  friendly,  so  gentle,  so 
sweet  voiced,  so  utterly  inconsequent;  but  it  would 
not  do  to  be  swept  away  by  impulse. 

"How  many  are  there  in  family,  madam?" 


22  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Two — just  my  husband  and  I.  He's  very  busy 
too.  Moths  you  know." 

"  Would  you  pay  thirty-five  dollars  and  send  out 
the  washing?" 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed.     That's  quite  settled." 

"And  I  could  have  a  comfortable,  sunny  room?" 

The  gentle  face  clouded  over.  A  furrow  of  dis- 
tress appeared  between  the  near-sighted  eyes. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  It's  dreadful,  but  you  know 
how  it  is  about  small  apartments.  Architects  don't 
seem  to  understand.  Of  course  you  ought  to  have  a 
comfortable,  sunny  room,  but  it's  quite  small — and 
on  the  court." 

"I'm  sorry,  too,"  Jean's  voice  was  honestly  regret- 
ful.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  discouraged  about 
that  comfortable  sunny  room,  and  yet  how  could  she 
bear  the  life  without  it? 

"We  might  move,"  the  little  woman  in  gray  sug- 
gested hopefully,  then  relapsed  into  distress.  "  But  I 
don't  see  how  we  could — so  many  papers — and 
things." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Jean  repeated.  She  was  sorry.  Here 
was  the  helpless,  lovable  mistress  of  her  dreams. 

Suddenly  the  distressed  face  cleared. 

"The  guest  room,  my  dear!  We  have  a  guest 
room.  I'd  quite  forgotten  it.  We've  never  used  it, 
you  see,  so  I  couldn't  remember.  It's  very  nice,  I 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  23 

think,  and  sunny.  You'll  be  comfortable  in  it,  I'm 
sure.  So  that's  all  settled.  You  can't  think  how 
relieved  and  pleased  I  am.  Could  you  come  right 
home  with  me?" 

"I'd  have  to  get  my  box  and  see  about  my  trunk. 
If  to-morrow  morning  would  do?" 

"It  would  be  so  pleasant  to  think  you  were  there 
to-night.  Not  for  dinner,  you  know.  I  get  very 
good  sandwiches  at  a  shop  around  the  corner  and  I 
think  there  are  apples.  That  will  do  nicely,  but  if 
you  could  come  hi  later,  and  be  there  when  I  wake  up. 
It  upsets  me  not  to  have  anybody  there  when  I  wake 
up — anybody  to  make  coffee,  I  mean.  Of  course 
Mr.  Bonner  is  there  but  he's  very  helpless — except 
about  moths." 

"I'll  be  there  by  eight  o'clock  this  evening," 
promised  Jean. 

Mrs.  Bonner  beamed  upon  her  gratefully. 
"That's  sweet  of  you,  and  you  are  pretty.  It's 
going  to  be  very  pleasant  to  see  you  around  and  I 
dare  say  everything  else  will  go  nicely.  We  live  at 
38  West  Twelfth  Street.  You  won't  forget  the 
address,  will  you?  Rufus  Bonner,  38  West  Twelfth 
Street.  You  wouldn't  fail  to  come?" 

"I'll  be  there  at  eight." 

"Yes,  of  course,  only  I've  heard  they  do  sometimes 
— but  I'm  sure  you  aren't  like  that.  At  eight  then. 


24  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Good-bye,  child.  You  are  only  a  child,  aren't  you? 
I  like  young  people  about." 

She  drifted  away  toward  the  hall  door,  stopping  at 
the  desk  to  pay  her  fee. 

"I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  gratefully 
to  Mrs.  Johnson.  "I  believe  she'll  be  quite  perfect. 
So  pretty,  don't  you  think?" 

Hannah  Johnson  watched  her  until  the  door 
closed  behind  her,  then  turned  to  Jean. 

"Well,  ain't  she  the  limit?"  she  commented. 

"She's  a  precious  lamb,"  Jean  declared  with 
fervour. 

Twenty  minutes  later  she  burst  into  Barbara 
Herrick's  living  room,  hugged  the  mistress  and 
master  of  the  house  impartially  and  perched  upon  the 
arm  of  Barbara's  chair. 

She  was  flushed,  excited,  triumphant. 

"I've  done  it,"  she  announced.  "I'm  a  working 
woman.  At  eight  o'clock  to-night  I  begin  playing 
Providence  to  an  absent-minded  cherub  with  a  moth- 
eaten  husband." 

"  Oh,  Jean !     Not  to-night ! "  wailed  Babs. 

"  To-night,  at  eight !  It  upsets  her  to  wake  up  and 
find  nobody  there  except  the  husband,  and  she 
mustn't  be  upset.  I  gathered  that  it  didn't  make 
much  difference  whether  I  could  cook  or  clean,  but 
that  I  positively  must  prevent  either  her  or  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  25 

moth-eaten  one  being  upset.  What  do  you  suppose 
is  the  matter  with  that  poor  man?  She  said  he 
was  very  helpless  except  about  moths,  and  that  he 
was  always  busy  with  them.  It  must  be  an  obses- 
sion. What  do  you  do  for  moths,  Babs? " 

"Tar  paper  isn't  worth  a  cent — nor  those  nasty- 
smelling  moth-balls  either."  Babs  was  desperately 
interested,  eager  to  help.  "My  furrier  says  there's 
nothing  for  it  but  just  to  put  the  things  in  the  air 
and  brush  them  well  every  week  or  two.  If  the 
place  is  full  of  them,  it  will  be  an  awful  job,  dear." 

"Children,"  said  Tom,  with  the  loftiness  of  the 
logical  masculine,  "you're  dippy.  That  man  can't 
spend  all  his  time  fighting  moths.  If  he's  that  far 
gone,  he'd  be  in  the  psychopathic  ward.  You  must 
have  misunderstood  the  absent-minded  cherub,  Jean." 

"No,  that's  what  she  said — 'helpless  about  every- 
thing but  moths. ' ' 

Barbara  Herrick's  expressive  face  took  on  a  look  of 
alarm.  "Why,  Jean,  that's  dreadful.  You  ought  to 
have  asked  her  what  was  wrong  with  him.  And 
anyway  she  doesn't  sound  quite  all  there  herself. 
You  can't  go  off  alone  with  people  like  that.  You 
must  stay  here  until  Tom  inquires.  Moths!  Why 
it  may  be  D.  Ts.  Employers  ought  to  give  references 
anyway,  but  Tom  can  find  out.  I  believe  they're 
mad,  Jean — absolutely  mad.  You  shan't  go  a  step." 


26  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"I'm  going  to  be  there  at  eight."  Jean  was  firm. 
"You  didn't  see  her,  Honey.  She's  a  darling,  and  if 
her  husband  wants  first  aid  from  the  handiest  little 
moth  fighter  in  New  York  he's  going  to  have  it.  You 
couldn't  keep  me  away  with  a  twenty-mule  team, 
Babs,  but  if  dinner  is  ready,  please  feed  me.  After 
this  I'll  have  to  eat  my  own  cooking,  and  I  want  one 
last  square  meal." 


CHAPTER  HI 

AT  FIVE  minutes  to  eight  on  the  evening  of  the  great 
adventure,  a  taxi-cab  stopped  before  the  door  of 
38  West  Twelfth  Street,  and  Jean  Mackaye,  her 
dressing  case  and  her  small  trunk  were  deposited 
upon  the  sidewalk. 

Out  of  deference  as  much  to  his  fare's  face  as  to  her 
tip,  the  driver  carried  her  bag  to  the  door,  gave  it  to 
the  hall  boy,  and  offered  to  wait  and  help  the  janitor 
with  the  trunk. 

Jean  thanked  him  in  a  small,  uncertain  voice  and 
fought  against  a  wild  inclination  to  cling  to  him  and 
beg  him  not  to  go  away.  He  was  the  connecting 
link  with  the  old  life  and,  standing  on  the  brink  of  a 
world  altogether  strange,  she  suddenly  felt  young  and 
lonely  and  a  little  bit  afraid. 

Her  sense  of  humour  came  to  her  rescue  as  it  so 
often  did.  What  if  she  should  throw  herself  into  the 
arms  of  the  unsuspecting  and  amiable  young  man, 
and  entreat  him  not  to  leave  her? 

She  laughed,  and  the  bad  moment  passed. 

"I'll  help  the  janitor  take  the  trunk  upstairs,"  said 

27 


28  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

! 

the  coloured  hall  boy  haughtily.  He  objected  to 
alien  labour.  If  tips  were  in  the  air,  it  was  right  and 
proper  that  they  should  fall  upon  him. 

"All  right.     Good-night,  Miss." 

Jean  reached  out  and  deposited  a  second  quarter 
hi  the  hand  of  the  departing  chauffeur.  He  stared 
at  it  in  surprise,  lifted  his  cap  again,  and  hurried 
away.  If  an  absent-minded  young  woman  forgot 
she  had  already  tipped  him  and  did  it  again,  he  was 
not  the  man  to  protest.  How  could  he  know  that  he 
was  a  bridge  across  a  great  gulf  and  that  the  young 
woman  who  had  tipped  him  twice  felt  that  the  bridge 
was  long  enough  to  justify  two  tolls? 

The  apartment  house  was  an  old-fashioned  one. 
Jean  was  glad  there  were  no  mirrors  or  onyx  pillars 
in  the  hall.  She  had  always  hated  apartment  houses 
and  coloured  hall  boys  and  rooms  strung  on  a  string 
— had  always  insisted  that  nothing  could  persuade 
her  to  live  in  one.  She  remembered  that  as  the  ele- 
vator shot  her  up  to  the  ninth  floor,  and  smiled  a 
little,  not  quite  happily,  but  her  pulse  quickened 
and  her  heart  beat  high  as  the  elevator  boy  stopped 
the  car  and  rang  the  bell  of  the  apartment  on  the 
left. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  little  woman  in  gray. 

"I  was  sure  you  would  come!"  she  said  joyously,  as 
she  held  out  a  welcoming  hand.  "Put  the  bag  into 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  29 

the  back  room,  John.  If  you  don't  mind,  my  dear, 
I'll  take  you  right  in  and  show  you  to  Mr.  Bonner. 
He  doesn't  believe  in  you  at  all.  You  see  he  has  an 
idea  I'm  not  very  practical  and  that  I  dream  a  good 
many  of  the  things  I  see,  but  I  told  him  I  was  sure  you 
were  real,  and  just  as  I  described  you — face  and  voice 
and  all.  If  I'd  been  dreaming  of  some  one  to  take 
Hannah's  place  I'd  never  have  dreamed  anything 
half  so  nice. 

"Rufus,  this  is  my  pretty  girl.  I  didn't  ask  your 
name.  Jean?  Well,  Rufus,  this  is  Jean.  Didn't  I 
tellyeu?" 

The,  little  old  gentleman  laid  down  his  paper,  rose, 
wiped  his  spectacles,  and  examined  the  confused  and 
blushing  girl  with  careful  though  respectful  atten- 
tion. 

"You  were  right,  my  dear,"  he  said  gravely.  "A 
very  choice  specimen." 

He  was  thin  and  stooped  and  bald,  save  for  a  fringe 
of  graying  hair  across  the  back  and  sides  of  his  head. 
Aside  from  his  scanty  locks  he  showed  no  sign  of 
being  moth-eaten,  and  if  he  was  mad,  as  Babs  had 
prophesied,  there  was  no  hint  of  it  in  his  gentle, 
scholarly  face. 

"Mrs.  Bonner  is  delighted  to  have  found  you, 
Jean,"  he  said  and,  though  his  tone  marked  the  dis- 
tance between  servant  and  social  equal,  he  spoke 


30  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

with  a  kindly  old-fashioned  courtesy.  "I  hope  you 
will  be  happy  here.  I'm  very  busy.  I  may  not 
notice,  but  if  anything  is  wrong  you  must  come  to 
me.  Speaking  to  me  once  about  anything  won't 
answer,  I  fear.  You'll  have  to  keep  at  me  till  I  really 
understand  that  the  matter  is  important.  So  few 
matters  seem  important." 

"I'll  try  not  to  bother  you,  sir." 

He  looked  at  her  hopefully. 

"That  will  be  very  nice,"  he  said.  "Hannah 
interrupted  me  sometimes — but  being  interrupted 
by  you  would  be  less  distressing  than  being  in- 
terrupted by  Hannah.  My  wife  said  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  some  one  pretty  in  the  family.  It 
is  pleasant. 

"Now,  Maria,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  I'll  go  back  to 
my  work.  I  had  reached  a  very  interesting  point. 
You've  been  most  successful,  my  dear — extraor- 
dinarily successful.  I  could  regret  that  you  hadn't 
given  your  attention  to  the  matter  before.  But  of 
course  we  didn't  realize  that  it  wasn't  necessary  to 
have  one  like  Hannah.  Good-night." 

As  he  passed  Jean,  he  smiled  at  her;  but  the  smile 
and  the  tone  were  both  oddly  detached.  His  work 
had  apparently  come  to  meet  him  and  he  was  already 
absorbed  in  it. 

"You'd  like  to  go  to  your  room  I'm  sure,"  Mrs. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  31 

Bonner  said.  "I  went  in  to  see  it  when  I  came 
home.  It's  quite  large  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be 
sunny.  I'm  so  glad  we  happened  to  have  a  guest 
room.  If  we  ever  move  I  must  remember  to  take 
a  place  with  a  guest  room,  but  I  don't  think  we'll 
move.  The  packing  would  be  too  difficult.  Mr. 
Bonner's  room  is  so  cluttered,  and  he  wouldn't  let 
anybody  touch  anything.  By  the  way,  you  mustn't 
dust  in  there  or  disturb  things — not  on  any  account. 
I  believe  Hannah  used  to  insist  on  cleaning  twice  a 
winter,  but  it  inconvenienced  him  dreadfully.  He 
didn't  like  Hannah,  but  he  seems  to  have  taken  a 
great  fancy  to  you.  Perhaps  he'll  be  willing  for  you 
to  clean  oftener." 

She  was  going  down  the  long,  narrow  hall  as  she 
talked,  and  reaching  the  end,  she  opened  a  door, 
stepped  through  it  and  turned  on  an  electric  light. 

"  This  is  your  room.  I  hope  you'll  like  it.  I  doubt 
whether  Hannah  left  it  clean,  but  it  looks  neat  on  the 
outside,  doesn't  it?  If  you  haven't  everything  you 
need  to  make  you  comfortable,  just  tell  me.  We 
want  you  to  be  comfortable." 

"I  want  very  much  to  make  you  comfortable,"  the 
new  maid  said  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  you  will.  There's  something  about 
your  eyes — or  maybe  it's  your  mouth — anyway, 
there's  something.  It  makes  me  feel  cheerful." 


3S  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

She  turned  toward  the  door,  hesitated,  came  back 
to  where  Jean  was  standing.  The  near-sighted  eyes 
with  their  curious,  vague  softness,  looked  up  into  the 
girl's  face,  and  she  laid  a  thin  white  hand  on  the  girl's 
arm. 

"You're  so  self-reliant — and  used  to  things,"  she 

said  diffidently;  "I  don't  suppose Still  you  are 

very  young It  seems  hard — you  wouldn't  be 

homesick  or  lonesome,  would  you?" 

For  one  awful  moment  the  new  cook  lady  wavered 
on  the  verge  of  falling  upon  her  mistress's  neck  and 
weeping  floods  of  tears.  Then  she  pulled  herself  to- 
gether and  smiled  into  the  concerned,  friendly  face — 
one  of  her  extra-special  smiles. 

"How  could  I  be  homesick  at  home?"  she  asked 
gayly. 

Mrs.  Bonner  looked  relieved. 

"If  you  can  feel  that  way,  of  course 

She  left  the  sentence  hanging  in  the  air.  Most  of 
her  sentences  were  left  hanging  in  the  air. 

"What  do  you  have  for  breakfast?"  Jean  asked,  in 
her  foost  businesslike  manner. 

Mrs.  Bonner's  face  expressed  a  vast  indifference. 
"I  think  Hannah  used  to  have  coffee.  Yes,  coffee 
and  toast  I  think,  and  a  cereal.  It  really  doesn't 
matter.  Whatever  you  think  best.  At  eight,  you 
know.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  getting  up  early.  Mr. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  33 

Bonner  and  I  both  like  to  begin  work  early,  but  if 
you'd  rather " 

"Eight  suits  me  perfectly." 

Remembrance  of  her  ten-o'clock  breakfasts  in  bed 
smote  Jean  as  she  spoke,  but  she  wouldn't  be  dancing 
all  night  every  night  now.  After  all,  there  must  be 
better  things  to  do  with  daytime  than  sleep  in  it. 

Mrs.  Bonner  lingered  a  moment  longer. 

"  There  was  something  I  wanted  to  say.  Oh,  yes, 
I  was  going  to  say  good-night.  You  must  be  tired. 
Good-night." 

Jean  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  around  the  unfamiliar  room. 

It  was  pleasant  as  apartment  rooms  go,  but  it  gave 
her  no  welcome — was  as  characterless,  as  blankly 
non-committal  as  the  ordinary  guest  room.  Per- 
haps one  could  make  a  home  of  it.  A  few  books  and 
pictures  and  one's  own  little  things — and  at  least 
there  was  a  bed.  She  undressed  hastily  and  just 
before  she  turned  off  the  light,  she  took  a  nickel  clock 
out  of  her  bag,  set  the  alarm  for  seven,  put  the 
clock  on  the  table  beside  the  bed,  and  regarded  it 
with  honest  pride.  There  was  something  tremen- 
dously impressive  about  an  alarm  clock.  She  won- 
dered if  the  sun  would  be  up  at  seven,  but  it  really 
didn't  matter  whether  the  sun  got  up  early;  the 
Bonners  did.  Seven  o'clock !  That  would  give  her  an 


34  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

hour.  She  would  make  muffins  for  breakfast — and 
an  omelette.  Those  two  babes  in  the  wood  were 
going  to  be  pampered,  and  the  process  might  as  well 
begin  at  once. 

She  was  planning  luncheon  when  sleep  overtook 
her.  The  way  to  keep  from  missing  things — and 
people — was  to  fill  one's  thoughts  and  time  full  of 
other  things  and  other  people.  Menus  would  do  as 
well  as  anything  for  filling. 

The  sun  was  up  when  the  alarm  rang,  but  it  had 
not  climbed  far  enough  through  the  soot  and  haze 
to  make  its  presence  felt. 

Jean  sprang  from  bed,  stumbled  across  the  room  in 
the  murky  half  light,  drew  the  curtains  and  turned 
on  the  light.  Getting  up  at  seven  was  not  a  joyous 
thing  in  mid-winter  and  she  never  had  been  keen 
about  getting  up  at  any  hour.  There  were  people 
who  leaped  lightly  from  bed  and  sang  or  whistled 
as  they  dressed.  Blanche  Morrow  had  told  the  girls 
that  her  husband  was  like  that.  She  had  seemed  to 
think  that  it  was  rather  splendid  of  him,  but  Jean 
had  felt  at  the  time  that  there  was  really  nothing  to 
do  with  a  husband  who  sang  before  breakfast  but 
divorce  him.  Living  with  him  would  inevitably 
wreck  any  one's  disposition. 

At  seven  fifteen  Mrs.  Bonner's  cook  was  in  the 
small  dark  kitchen  hunting  for  things  that  the  de- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  35 

parted  Hannah  had  broken  or  lost  or  thrown  away. 
Her  temper  was  frayed  about  the  edges  but  her 
sporting  blood  was  up.  Presumably  every  cook 
who  went  to  a  new  place  was  turned  loose  in  a 
strange  kitchen  without  map  or  chart,  and  expected 
to  work  miracles.  Remembering  the  assortment  of 
cooks  in  the  intelligence  office,  Jean  set  her  teeth 
hard.  If  all  those  women  could  work  miracles,  she 
ought  to  be  able  to  work  them  with  one  hand  tied 
behind  her.  So  she  used  what  she  could  find  instead 
of  what  she  wanted,  and  promptly  at  eight  she 
served  a  well-cooked  meal  to  two  indifferent  persons 
whose  minds  were  evidently  upon  other  things. 

"There  is  no  fruit  in  the  house,  madam,"  she 
said  apologetically.  Mrs.  Bonner  looked  up  from 
her  paper. 

"No?  Oh — well,  never  mind."  She  went  back  to 
the  paper  and  Jean  made  a  mental  note  of  the  fact 
that  it  would  be  well  to  withhold  papers  until  after 
breakfast.  That,  however,  would  come  later.  Re- 
forms must  not  be  too  drastic  at  first.  When  she 
had  her  family  firmly  in  hand  she  could  arrange  all 
those  matters. 

The  unsuspecting  victims  ate  their  cereal  docilely. 
Midway  through  his  dish,  Mr.  Bonner  poised  his  spoon 
in  midair.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  with  a  puzzled 
frown,  "the  oatmeal  is  different  in  some  way." 


36  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Jean's  heart  stood  still.  Perhaps  she  had  forgotten 
the  salt,  but  Mrs.  Bonner's  reply  relieved  her  mind. 
That  lady  with  an  obvious  effort  wrenched  her  at- 
tention from  the  newspaper  and  tasted  her  next 
mouthful  critically. 

"I  think  the  difference  is  that  it  isn't  scorched, 
Rufus,"  she  suggested,  and  the  subject  was  dropped 
there. 

When  Jean  came  in  with  the  omelette,  she  found 
Mr.  Bonner  disappearing  through  one  door  and  Mrs. 
Bonner  through  another. 

"  Oh,  please ! "  she  pleaded.    "You  aren't  through." 

They  turned  around  and  came  back  to  the  table. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "I 
supposed ' ' 

His  glance  fell  upon  the  omelette — a  delicately 
browned,  inviting  omelette.  "Well,  really!"'  he 
murmured,  as  he  sank  into  his  chair.  "Really- 

Mrs.  Bonner  laid  her  newspaper  aside. 

"I  always  liked  an  omelette,"  she  admitted,  "but  I 
didn't  know  they  were  made  now." 

Jean  brought  in  the  muffins  and  passed  them  with 
an  ill-concealed  air  of  triumph.  Mr.  Bo:  ate 
three,  thought  of  taking  a  fourth,  and  refrained 

"I  believe,  Maria"  (his  tone  held  a  childlike  sur- 
prise), "I  really  believe  my  appetite  is  improving." 

When  she  had  sent  the  two  to  their  workrooms,  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  37 

new  cook  ragtimed  to  the  kitchen  with  an  empty 
omelette  plate  in  one  hand  and  an  empty  muffin  dish 
in  the  other. 

"Poor  innocents!"  She  took  the  gas  stove  into 
her  confidence.  "They've  been  half  starved,  and 
they  were  too  absent-minded  to  notice  it." 

The  sun  was  high  now.  It  even  looked  into  the 
gloomy  little  kitchen  and  played  impertinent  tricks 
with  the  cook's  hair,  though  the  dirty  window  panes 
did  their  best  to  shut  it  out  and  preserve  the 
proprieties. 

"Hannah!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  as  she  pulled  out  a 
dish  pan  and  saw  the  ring  of  grease  around  its  sides, 
"Hannah  indeed!" 

Close  upon  the  heels  of  her  snort  of  scorn  came  a 
wave  of  ambition.  That  kitchen  should  be  cleaned 
—cleaned  thoroughly — at  once.  Everything  should 
be  cleaned  except  Mr.  Bonner's  room.  It  might  take 
her  a  week  to  persuade  him  that  she  could  clean  him 
painlessly,  but  she  looked  forward  to  that  forbidden 
room.  Mrs.  Bonner  had  said  that  it  was  cluttered. 
She  would  put  the  clutter  to  rights  even  if  it  did  in- 
terrupt the  poor  dear's  work.  She  wondered  what 
his  work  was — what  Mrs.  Bonner's  work  was. 

Well,  at  least  her  own  work  was  clearly  laid  out  for 
her.  She  was  going  to  be  gloriously  busy,  was  going 
to  play  Providence,  was  going  to  try  her  hand  at 


38  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

creating  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  and  training 
a  man  and  a  woman  to  live  happily  in  it.  It  was 
sacrilegiously  like  something  out  of  Genesis. 

"Jean,  my  child,"  she  said  to  a  young  person  in 
blue  chambray,  white-capped,  white-aproned,  who 
looked  at  her  from  the  mirror  in  Mrs.  Bonner's 
bureau,  "you  are  a  useful  member  of  society  for  the 
first  time  in  your  silly  old  life.  Hurrah  for  you!" 

The  kitchen  was  cleaned  thoroughly,  and  at  once. 

So  soul-satisfying  an  experience  Jean  had  never 
even  imagined.  She  dug,  she  soaked,  she  scoured. 
She  began  mildly  with  washing  soda  and  worked  up  to 
lye  and  chloride  of  lime.  Working  within  limited 
space,  the  departed  Hannah  had  accomplished 
prodigies,  and  as  each  grease-encrusted  cooking  uten- 
sil was  dragged  from  its  hiding-place,  each  dark 
corner  disclosed  its  secret,  each  bit  of  debris  was 
added  to  the  scrap  heap,  the  cook  lady's  spirits 
soared.  Never  in  all  her  life  before  had  she  known 
the  sacred  frenzy  of  housecleaning,  but  now,  from  the 
primal  depths  of  her  being  welled  up  the  world-old 
feminine  instinct,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  it  with  a 
whole-hearted  abandon  that  her  tennis  and  her 
dancing  had  never  known. 

She  grudged  the  time  devoted  to  preparing  and 
serving  luncheon.  She  hurried  her  two  through  din- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  39 

ner;  she  worked  until  far  into  the  night  and  when 
—tired,  hot,  dirty — she  went  toward  bath  and  bed, 
she  closed  the  door  upon  a  kitchen  of  which  any 
housekeeper  might  have  been  proud,  a  kitchen  whose 
shining  pots  and  pans  hung  primly  upon  neat  brass 
hooks,  whose  cupboards  revealed  a  neatness  almost 
painful  to  the  unaccustomed  eye,  whose  gas  stove 
was  an  ornament,  whose  windows  were  crystalline 
pure,  whose  table  oilcloth  was  as  the  driven  snow, 
whose  linoleum  had  developed  a  clear  but  previously 
unsuspected  pattern  in  blue  and  white. 

To  be  sure  there  were  yawning  gaps  in  the  equip- 
ment. Clothes-basketful  after  clothes-basketful  of 
battered  and  broken  and  unreclaimable  kitchen 
derelicts  had  gone  down  upon  the  dumb  waiter,  but 
the  gaps  could  be  filled,  and  it  was  better  that  things 
should  be  killed  than  that  they  should  be  merely 
crippled. 

After  she  had  removed  the  signs  of  the  fray  and 
was  ready  for  bed,  Jean  went  back  down  the  hall, 
opened  the  kitchen  door,  turned  on  the  electric  light, 
and  looked  around.  Her  tired  face  glowed  with 
satisfaction  and  pride,  and  as  she  trailed  away  to- 
ward her  room,  she  cast  an  appraising  glance  through 
the  open  door  of  the  dining-room. 

"To-morrow,"  she  said  happily,  "will  be  another 
day." 


\  CHAPTER  IV 

THE  first  week  of  the  new  cook's  regime  saw  a 
revolution  in  the  Bonner  apartment — a  revolution  on 
the  South  American  order — much  fervour,  an  ex- 
penditure of  cash,  a  change  of  rulers,  but  few  actual 
casualties. 

A  man  came  in  to  rub  up  the  furniture.  Another 
man  polished  floors.  A  third  man  cleaned  windows. 
There  was  a  man  to  repair  the  gas  stove  and  a  man  to 
put  the  electric  lights  in  order  and  a  man  to  see  to  the 
plumbing. 

The  place  swarmed  with  men;  and  among  them 
moved  a  young  woman  with  fire  in  her  eyes,  authority 
in  her  voice,  and  honey  in  her  smile.  If  a  shirker 
proved  impervious  to  the  fire  and  the  authority,  the 
honey  won  him  to  unaccustomed  effort.  As  for  the 
coloured  hall  boys,  they  promptly,  unhesitatingly, 
reverted  to  a  condition  of  slavery. 

"It  ain't  that  I  has  to  do  it,"  the  day  boy  explained 
to  the  night  boy,  "but  when  she  calls  me  up  there  an' 
turns  them  lamps  of  hers  on  me — say,  man!  " 

The  dirt  and  decrepitude  of   years  were  routed 

40 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  41 

from  the  Bonner  apartment.  Things  were  put  in 
order — in  whole,  clean,  smooth-running  order. 

Jean  planned,  toiled,  commanded,  cajoled,  while 
behind  closed  doors  her  employers  worked  on  peace- 
fully ignorant  of  the  turmoil.  When,  called  to 
meals,  they  came  out  of  seclusion,  they  found  a 
quiet  dining-room,  a  tranquil  presiding  genius  and  an 
irreproachable  meal.  They  were  entirely  comfort- 
able and  as  entirely  undisturbed,  and  they  asked 
nothing  more  of  fate.  Some  day  they  were  to  be  dis- 
turbed. Jean  was  working  up  to  that.  She  had 
discovered  what  they  did  when  they  shut  them- 
selves away.  Writing  was  their  particular  branch  of 
crime.  Mrs.  Bonner  was  absorbed  in  the  fauna,  flora, 
and  folk-lore  of  the  Faroe  Islands.  Mr.  Bonner  was 
in  the  throes  of  making  an  important  contribution  to 
the  scientific  literature  concerning  the  moths  of  North 
America. 

Each  wrote  at  an  untidy  desk  with  books  and  letters 
and  papers  piled  high  on  every  side;  but  Mr.  Bon- 
ner's  room  was  by  far  the  more  untidy  of  the  two. 
Specimen  boxes,  nets,  paraphernalia  of  many  kinds 
were  added  to  the  books  and  papers  in  his  room  and, 
over  all,  the  dust  had  settled  thickly,  steadily,  save 
where  a  volume  or  specimen  or  paper  had  been  in  re- 
cent use. 

Jean,  standing  for  the  first  time  in  the  doorway 


42  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

and  eyeing  the  chaos,  felt  the  berserker  rage  for 
battle  sweeping  over  her  and  fled  incontinently,  but 
the  vision  lingered.  Some  day  she  would  have,  in 
that  room,  such  an  orgy  of  cleaning  as  even  the 
kitchen  had  not  afforded;  but  not  yet — not  yet. 

When  the  last  workman  had  laggingly  departed 
and  the  apartment,  aside  from  the  rooms  in  which 
genius  burned,  had  been  swept  and  garnished,  Jean 
made  a  triumphal  tour,  stopping  in  each  room  to 
gloat  over  the  fruit  of  her  efforts,  then  retreated  to 
her  own  room  and  sat  down  to  write  to  Barbara 
Herrick.  She  wrote: 

BABS  DEAR: 

Did  you  ever  clean  anything  that  was  horribly  dirty? 
If  not,  don't  begin.  Once  started,  you  can't  stop.  The 
momentum  you've  worked  up  to  get  you  past  the  first 
disgust  carries  you  on  indefinitely.  The  thing  becomes  a 
mania,  an  obsession.  The  cocaine  habit  isn't  a  circum- 
stance to  it — I  could  easily  refrain  from  dusting.  It's 
puttering,  futile  work;  but  cleaning! 

I've  cleaned  this  apartment  until  more  cleaning  would 
be  painting  the  lily,  and  heaven  knows  the  place  needed 
it.  My  contempt  for  the  Hannah  who  allowed  the  dirt 
to  accumulate  is  tempered  by  gratitude.  If  I  had  come 
into  an  approximately  clean  apartment  I  might  never 
have  known  my  own  possibilities,  but  now  I  am  self- 
reliant  to  the  point  of  insolence.  As  for  generalship — 
Napoleon  was  a  mere  piker  compared  to  me. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  43 

Do  you  remember  Walt  Whitman's  "I  myself  could  stop 
here  and  do  miracles"?  No;  I  remember  you  never 
thought  Whitman  quite  nice.  Well,  it  makes  no  difference. 
I  was  only  going  to  say  that  I  know  exactly  how  he  felt. 

And  I've  not  only  cleaned;  I've  cooked.  I've  cooked 
delicious  things,  Babs — so  delicious  that  my  Heavenly 
Twins  are  coming  out  of  their  trances  and  remembering  to 
enjoy  their  meals. 

And  I've  marketed.  It's  not  at  all  hard  to  market  if 
you  find  an  obliging  young  man  who  knows  his  business 
and  is  polite  enough  to  pretend  that  you  can  tell  a  broiler 
from  an  old  hen  without  his  assistance.  Our  diplomatic 
service  ought  to  be  recruited  from  among  market  men. 
They'd  raise  its  tone  tremendously  and  there's  a  certain 
red-headed  young  Mr.  Parsons  whom  I  could  recommend 
for  ambassador  to  any  troublous  country.  He  almost 
makes  me  believe  that  I  am  picking  out  my  own  food  and 
that  he  is  gathering  up  crumbs  of  wisdom  as  they  fall  from 
my  lips,  in  a  hope  of  one  day  knowing  half  as  much  about 
vegetables  and  meat  and  poultry  and  fish  as  I  do. 

And,  Babs,  I've  kept  accounts!  Miracles?  Well, 
rather.  Of  course  the  accounts  don't  always  come  out 
right.  I'm  weak  in  addition  and  subtraction,  and  fractions 
leave  me  limp;  but  at  heart  I'm  honest,  and  I  keep  those 
accounts  very,  very  carefully.  Somebody  has  to  be  careful 
in  this  family. 

The  first  time  I  needed  money  for  household  expenses  I 
interrupted  Mrs.  Bonner  at  her  work — the  unpardonable 
sin.  She  waved  me  off. 

"My  purse  is  on  the  bureau  or  the  piano  or  somewhere," 
she  said.  "I  don't  know  whether  there's  any  money  in  it 
but  I  think  perhaps  there's  some  in  a  vase  on  the  dining- 


44  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

room  mantel — or  maybe  it's  in  the  match  safe.  When  you 
think  you  are  going  to  need  some  more,  speak  to  me  about 
it  at  meal  time,  please." 

There  were  eighteen  dollars  in  the  purse  and  two  one- 
hundred  dollar  bills  and  a  ten  in  the  match  safe.  How's 
that  for  a  system  of  household  finance?  I  wonder  whether 
Hannah  was  honest. 

Apropos  of  honesty,  I'll  have  to  admit  that  I  haven't 
worked  all  my  miracles  single-handed  and  alone.  No 
woman  need  do  that.  There  are  always  men  willing  to 
help.  There's  Mr.  Flavin,  the  janitor,  for  instance.  I'm 
afraid  he  drinks;  and  the  smell  of  his  pipe  as  it  floats  up  the 
dumb  waiter  indicates  low  tastes  in  the  matter  of  tobacco; 
but,  as  for  heart — he's  all  heart,  is  Mr.  Flavin.  He  tells 
me  that  has  been  his  fatal  weakness  but  Mrs.  Flavin  in- 
sists that  drink  is  the  real  enemy. 

I  do  love  the  Irish,  Babs. 

There  was  Barney  Flynn.  Of  all  the  men  who  have  ever 
courted  me  I  could  have  come  the  nearest  marrying 
Barney.  Yes,  dear.  I  know  he  made  love  to  every  pretty 
face,  and  he  had  a  fiend  of  a  temper,  and  money  wouldn't 
stick  to  his  fingers.  He'd  probably  have  beaten  me  and 
he  might  not  have  supported  me,  but  oh,  how  he  would 
have  entertained  me ! 

And  by  the  way,  while  the  talk  is  of  courting,  let  me  tell 
you,  Mrs.  Thomas  Herrick,  that  you  were  entirely  wrong 
when  you  prophesied  that  by  going  into  domestic  service  I 
would  shut  the  door  upon  eligible  suitors.  I — moi  qui  vous 
parle — have  softened  the  heart  of  a  plumber!  I  had  im- 
agined that  plumbers  were  stony-hearted,  inaccessible 
Olympian  beings  who  were  to  be  called  upon  like  Baal  of 
old  and  might  possibly  bend  ear  to  the  call  but  were  more 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  45 

likely  to  sleep  on.  They're  nothing  of  the  sort.  At  any 
rate,  my  plumber  isn't.  He's  quite  human.  I  sent  for 
him;  he  didn't  come.  I  went  for  him;  he  came  with 
alacrity.  More  astonishing  still,  he  stayed  until  he  had 
finished  the  job.  Mr.  Flavin  had  given  me  to  understand 
that  he  would  probably  disjoint  everything  so  that  none  of 
the  pipes  could  be  used,  and  all  the  water  from  our  apart- 
ment would  drain  into  the  ceilings  below,  and  then  would 
go  away  for  a  week;  so  I'll  admit  I  took  special  pains  to 
keep  him  interested  in  the  work. 

When  he  went  away  he  told  me  he'd  like  to  keep  steady 
company  with  me.  I  declined  gently  but  firmly  and  I'm 
afraid  I've  lost  a  perfectly  good  plumber,  but  the  glow  of 
self-satisfaction  lingers.  For  Babs,  that  sturdy  young 
man  in  overalls  was  worth  six  of  any  gilded  youth  you  ever 
begged  me  to  marry — and  I  knew  it.  That's  a  sign  that 
my  gray  matter  hasn't  altogether  ossified  from  disuse.  I've 
a  sneaking  idea  that  I'm  worth  more  myself  than  any  one 
(except  the  plumber)  ever  suspected.  I'm  beginning  to 
believe  that  everybody's  worth  more  than  his  face  value. 
I  wonder  if  it's  true. 

When  I  went  into  this  general  housework  game  I  had  an 
idea  that  I'd  hold  myself  toploftically  aloof  from  every- 
thing concerned  with  it  except  my  work  and  my  pay  and 
my  employers  but,  do  you  know,  I'm  beginning  to  be 
tremendously  curious  about  the  other  general  house- 
workers.  This  place  of  mine  is  opera  bouffe.  I  know 
that.  It  isn't — aside  from  the  cooking  and  cleaning,  etc. 
— any  more  like  the  ordinary  general  housework  position 
than  an  aeroplane  is  like  an  ox.  I've  had  the  luck  of  the 
world;  but  those  othei  employers  and  kitchens  and  cooks 
—I  wonder 


46  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

There's  such  a  pretty  young  Irish  girl  working  in  the 
apartment  across  the  hall.  Mrs.  Flavin  says  she's  a 
"traipsin',  'stravagin'  piece"  and  that  the  "gurul"  who 
works  in  the  apartment  below  us  is  a  "  steady,  knowledge- 
able body"  and  that  the  Collins's  maid,  over  my  head, 
"had  ought  by  rights  to  be  in  the  'orspital."  Now  I 
wonder  what  the  sick  girl's  room  is  like,  and  I 
wonder  what  the  "traipsin',  'stravagin'  piece's"  mother 
was  like,  and  I  wonder  how  the  "knowledgeable  body" 
came  by  her  knowledge.  People  are  frightfully  interesting 
when  you  find  out  they're  there,  but  they  do  upset  all  one's 
theories.  None  of  the  rules  I  learned,  fit.  I  don't 
suppose  any  set  of  rules  would  fit.  People  don't  seem  to 
have  been  made  by  rule.  They're  all  exceptions. 

Don't  worry  about  me,  Babs.  I'm  getting  along  fa- 
mously. My  finger-nails  aren't  what  they  were,  and  I 
scalded  my  nose  with  spattered  grease  to-day,  which 
mars  my  beauty,  and  my  feet  get  so  tired  that  I've  taken 
to  large,  soft,  square-toed,  low-heeled,  old-ladies'  slippers, 
but  I've  a  hopeful  feeling  that  all  my  pains  are  growing 
paing.  Some  day — D.  V. — I'm  going  to  be  a  WOMAN! 

Devotedly 
JEAN. 


There  were  things  that  Jean  did  not  put  into  her 
letters  to  Barbara  Herrick — things  that  she  did  not 
admit  even  to  herself,  save  once  in  a  while  when 
leisure  hung  heavily  upon  her  hands. 

Even  the  most  energetic  and  scrupulous  of  general 
houseworkers  cannot  spend  all  her  waking  moments 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  47 

making  two  elderly,  unexacting  cherubs  comfortable, 
and  keeping  a  nine-room  apartment  clean;  and,  in  the 
idle  hours,  loneliness  lurked. 

Mrs.  Bonner,  on  a  day  when  the  Faroes  had  tem- 
porarily sunk  below  the  horizon,  had  made  a  vague 
inquiry  about  her  new  servant's  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  "days  out." 

* '  Days  ou t ! ' '  They  were  the  last  thing  the  servant 
in  question  coveted.  She  wanted  to  keep  busy, 
desperately  busy;  but,  after  the  first  few  weeks,  her 
work  ran  so  smoothly  that  she  could  not  make  it  fill 
her  days.  In  the  afternoons  she  could  walk  if  she 
wasn't  too  tired  and  the  weather  was  good,  and  there 
were  plenty  of  districts  where  she  was  safe  from  meet- 
ing folk  who  knew  her.  Fascinating  districts  they 
were,  more  foreign  to  her  than  anything  in  London  or 
Paris  or  Rome  or  Berlin.  She  had  done  con- 
scientious sightseeing  in  the  capitals  of  Europe,  but  in 
New  York  she  had  bounded  her  world  on  the  south 
by  Washington  Square,  on  the  west  by  Broadway 
and  Riverside  Drive,  on  the  east  by  Park  Avenue. 
On  the  north  there  had  been  a  place  called  Harlem 
through  which  one  motored  as  quickly  as  possible 
on  the  way  to  country  houses  along  the  Hudson  or  the 
Sound. 

Now  she  explored  new  country,  followed  every 
winding  cow-pathway  of  old  Greenwich  Village, 


>48  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

wandered  down  into  the  Italian  quarter  and  over  to 
the  lower  East  Side,  idled  along  the  smelly  truck- 
crowded  river  fronts.  When  she  was  too  tired  to  go 
farther  afield  she  sat  in  Washington  Square  and 
watched  the  queer,  heterogeneous  crowd  of  humanity 
drifting  along  its  paths,  sprawled  over  its  benches, 
playing  in  the  open  spaces.  There  were  old  friends 
of  hers  in  some  of  the  big,  brick  houses  whose  fronts 
glowed  so  softly  mellow  in  afternoon  sunshine 
along  the  north  side  of  the  Square;  but  the  people 
who  had  been  her  people  were  not  likely  to  go 
below  the  dead  line  that  stretched  for  them  along 
Washington  Square  North.  Some  of  them  did  not 
suspect  that  there  was  anything  below,  save  per- 
haps the  studios  of  a  few  artists  whose  talent  offset 
their  strange  willingness  to  live  quite  out  of  the 
world. 

Sitting  on  her  iron  bench  beyond  the  pale,  Jean 
smiled  indulgently  at  the  geographical  limitations  of 
the  world  that  had  been  hers,  yet  there  were  times 
when  she  wished  that  she  had  not  discovered  the  flaw 
in  her  own  geography.  Life  farther  south  teased  her 
with  problems,  upset  her  smug  philosophy.  Some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  about  a  lot  of  things.  That 
was  evident,  but  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  anything 
more  strenuous  than  general  housework  and  it  was 
depressing  to  glimpse  the  fact  that  her  great  adven- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  49 

lure  wasn't  much  of  an  adventure  after  all — that  she 
was  still  safe  in  harbour,  still  shirking,  still  a  futile 
atom  in  humanity's  great  bulk. 

Just  at  first  that  bulk  staggered  her.  She  saw 
only  the  crowd — the  strange,  seething,  impersonal, 
unintelligible  crowd;  but,  little  by  little,  she  became 
conscious  of  individuals — always  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  crowd,  but  reassuringly  human — just 
persons,  male,  female,  child,  grown-up,  each  standing 
out  distinctly  in  the  welter  of  humanity,  good  and 
bad,  sick  and  well,  cheerful  and  sad,  surly  and 
friendly — just  persons. 

There  was  the  pale,  stooped,  cheerful  old  man  in 
the  second-hand  book  shop  on  Houston  Street.  Jean 
liked  him.  He  was  so  glad  to  talk  about  books  even 
to  a  girl  who  didn't  know  a  first  edition  when  she  saw 
it.  At  first  she  had  worried  about  him  and  the  stock 
that  crowded  his  shelves.  How  could  a  man  sell 
Herbert  Spencer  and  Nietzsche  to  Houston  Street, 
when  even  on  Upper  Fifth  Avenue  only  the  high- 
brow contingent  browsed  on  such  upland  pasturage? 
But  after  she  had  watched  and  listened  for  a  while, 
perched  on  a  stool  in  the  dark  little  shop,  she  laid 
aside  her  theory  that  the  East  Side  confined  itself  to 
literature  of  the  Laura  Jean  Libby  type.  The  sallow, 
thin,  eager-eyed  Jewish  lads  who  patronized  the  shop 
and  wrestled  mightily  over  prices  carried  off  amazing 


50  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

volumes  as  the  fruits  of  their  bargaining,  books  whose 
very  titles  made  Jean's  brain  ache  with  weariness. 

"Do  they  read  them?"  she  asked  incredulously 
of  the  bookseller. 

"Eat  them  up,"  he  assured  her.  "But  as  for  di- 
gesting— I  can't  say." 

Then  there  was  Mrs.  Pacioli,  the  mother  of  ten. 
Jean  liked  her,  too.  Mr.  Pacioli  was  doing  his  bit  up 
the  river — some  little  matter  of  disagreement  about 
the  number  of  red  peppers  strung  on  a  neighbour's 
line,  and  a  knife  and  a  judge  with  absurd  ideas  about 
the  inability  of  gentlemen  to  settle  quarrels  among 
themselves.  Mrs.  Pacioli  was  inclined  to  think  that 
there  would  be  doings  when  Giuseppe  got  out. 
Meanwhile,  the  Lord  be  praised,  business  was  good 
and  Luigi  was  able  to  keep  the  boys  from  raiding  the 
fruit  and  vegetable  stand.  Luigi  was  a  good  boy 
and  quick  with  the  fists.  There  were  three  older,  but 
they  worked  on  the  railroads  far  away  to  the  west. 

The  other  six  were  too  young  to  be  relied  upon 
though  Maria  could  help  much  if  the  law  did  not 
foolishly  insist  upon  her  going  to  school.  Judges, 
courts,  law — Mrs.  Pacioli  had  a  poor  opinion  of  them 
all,  but  she  was  very  friendly  to  the  signorina  with 
the  smile,  and  Jean  once  spent  two  whole  hours 
buying  three  sweet  peppers  from  her. 

Rachael  also  was  a  Person.     She  worked  in  a  shirt- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  51 

waist  factory  on  West  Fourth  Street  and  lived  on 
Bleecker.  On  holidays  she  often  sat  on  the  same 
bench  with  Jean  in  the  Square.  Sometimes  her  young 
man  was  with  her.  His  name  was  Immanuel — Im- 
manuel  Liebwitz  and  he  was  usually  on  strike.  Some- 
times Rachael,  too,  was  on  strike  and  then  the  two 
spent  week-days  as  well  as  holidays  on  the  park 
bench,  unless  they  happened  to  be  picketing  or  attend- 
ing union  meetings. 

It  was  with  Rachael  and  Immanuel  that  Jean  went 
to  her  first  Cooper  Union  meeting.  After  that  she 
often  went  alone.  It  filled  her  evenings  and  her 
thoughts  and  no  one  in  the  Cooper  Union  crowd 
would  know  her  or  would  pay  the  slightest  attention 
to  her.  On  Broadway  she  might  have  been  annoyed, 
but  the  Cooper  Union  men  were  too  much  absorbed 
in  their  own  burning  interests  to  notice  that  a  girl  was 
pretty  and  alone. 

The  meetings  stirred  Jean's  brain  and  soul  but 
she  got  little  from  them  beyond  the  stirring.  No  two 
of  the  impassioned  speakers  saw  things  from  the  same 
angle,  advanced  the  same  theories,  proposed  the 
same  remedies — and  the  girl  herself  had  not  felt 
deeply  enough,  studied  earnestly  enough,  lived  fully 
enough,  to  separate  wheat  from  chaff  by  any  mental 
or  spiritual  process  of  her  own. 

It  was  interesting  to  listen — stimulating.     Jean's 


52  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

receptive  mind  ran  lightly  from  single  tax  to  socialism, 
from  socialism  to  anarchy.  She  frothed  with  enthu- 
siasm over  sabotage  and  split  her  gloves  applaud- 
ing I.  W.  W.  incitement  to  riot.  She  sickened  under 
descriptions  of  conditions  in  restaurant  kitchens  and 
sweat  shops  and  bakeries  and  political  caucuses. 

She  lost  her  appetite  for  most  kinds  of  food  through 
the  disclosures  of  pure  food  specialists,  acquired  a  dis- 
respect for  the  courts  that  rivalled  Mrs.  Pacioli's 
own,  and  was  temporarily  convinced  that  capitalists 
were  monstrous  oppressors,  though  she  could  not 
help  making  a  few  mental  reservations  in  favour 
of  certain  plutocratic,  fatherly  old  gentlemen  with 
whose  families  she  had  been  intimate. 

Altogether  she  accumulated  a  mass  of  raw  thought 
and  more-or-less  distorted  fact  which  her  brain 
struggled  vainly  to  digest  and,  having  finally  reached 
such  a  point  of  pessimism  that  she  would  not  have 
been  surprised  to  have  the  whole  world  give  a  loud 
scream  and  go  to  hell,  she  forsook  the  haunts  of  free 
speech.  Something  was  wrong  with  the  world,  but 
down  under  the  muddle  of  new  ideas  and  convictions 
which  she  had  been  accumulating  stirred  a  suspicion 
that  something  was  wrong  with  her  and  that,  when  it 
came  to  reformation,  it  might  be  the  part  of  wisdom 
to  try  her  'prentice  hand  on  herself  rather  than  on  the 
world  at  large. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  53 

The  old  bookseller  in  the  dingy  Houston  Street 
shop  put  the  thing  into  words  the  next  day. 

"Some  of  them  read  and  some  of  them  think  and 
some  of  them  only  feel,"  he  said,  "but  they  all  fer- 
ment. It's  healthier  than  dry  rot.  Change  comes 
that  way;  but  it's  easier  to  shriek  protest  against 
wrong  than  to  do  right.  When  every  man  does  his 
duty  toward  himself  and  his  neighbour  there  won't 
be  any  need  of  dynamiting  the  man  on  the  next  block 
— but  that's  a  long  way  off  and  the  dynamite  may 
help.  It  wasn't  invented  in  Christ's  time,  but 
crucifixes  were  popular  then.  I  don't  know.  No- 
body knows.  Some  try  dynamite  and  some  try 
brotherly  love  and  some  just  howl  and  beat  the  air 
and  try  nothing.  I'd  like  to  be  here  in  five  hundred 
years  and  see  how  things  have  worked  out — only 
I'm  afraid  human  nature'd  be  pretty  much  the  same 
at  it  is  now,  and  if  it  was,  there'd  still  be  brotherly 
lovers  and  dynamiters  and  howlers.  I'm  hoping 
though  that  I'd  have  grown  a  little  myself  in  the 
five  hundred  years.  Even  a  sprout  or  two'd  be  a 
start.  There's  lots  of  growing  time  in  eternity." 

Jean  was  mulling  over  what  he  had  said  as  she 
hurried  home  through  the  early  dusk.  She  was  too 
young  to  think  in  500-year  cycles.  She  wanted  to 
sprout  at  once — to  grow  like  Jonah's  gourd,  and  to 
pull  this  whole  world  up  with  her,  "brotherly  lovers, 


54  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

dynamiters,  howlers "  and  all;  but  one  phrase  of  the 
old  man's  stuck  fast  in  her  memory:  "When  each 
man  does  his  duty  toward  himself  and  his  neighbour 
there  won't  be  any  need  of  dynamiting  the  man  in 
the  next  block." 

The  idea  was  old  enough.  It  went  back  to  the 
Ten  :  Commandments  and  Buddha  and  Confu- 
cius and  the  beginning  of  thought.  It  had  been 
preached  at  her  from  the  most  fashionable  pulpits 
in  the  land;  but  some  way  or  other,  the  little  old 
man  with  the  thin,  thoughtful  face  and  the  shabby 
clothes  and  the  quiet  voice  had  made  the  thing 
sound  different.  Perhaps  the  howling  and  dynamit- 
ing had  opened  her  eyes  to  the  possibilities  of 
brotherly  love.  Perhaps,  after  all,  that  was  their 
part  in  the  scheme  of  things.  At  any  rate,  here  was  a 
starting  point.  She  would  take  herself  in  hand — and 
her  neighbour;  but  who  was  her  neighbour? 

The  girl  who  "by  rights  had  ought  to  be  in  the 
'orspital "  answered  the  question.  Not  in  words.  She 
wasn't  up  to  words.  She  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of 
a  house  on  East  Twelfth  Street  and  just  at  first  Jean 
thought  she  was  drunk,  and  turned  away  from  her. 
Then  she  turned  back  impulsively.  Even  if  the 
woman  was  drunk — and  she  might  be  ill.  She  was 
ill.  One  look  into  her  white  face  told  that.  Her 
breath  fluttered  painfully.  Her  lips  moved  without 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  55 

sound.  Her  big  sombre  eyes  stared  miserably  into 
those  of  the  girl  who  leaned  over  her,  then  closed. 
Jean  looked  around  in  utter  helplessness.  There 
must  be  something  one  could  do — but  what?  It  was 
criminal  not  to  know — to  be  of  no  use  in  emergencies. 
That  was  the  way  she  had  lived.  There  had  always 
been  some  one  else  to  meet  the  emergencies.  She 
thought  of  policemen  and  ambulances  and  doctors, 
but  some  one  must  telephone  for  them,  and  who 
would  telephone,  and  where? 

She  slipped  an  arm  under  the  head  that  lay  against 
the  stone  step  and  rubbed  the  cold,  gloveless  hands. 
Whisky — but  where,  how?  The  world  was  so  full  of 
whys  and  hows.  Funny  she  Lad  never  noticed  that 
in  the  old  days. 

Out  of  the  dusk  came  a  familiar  face,  a  girlish 
pretty  face  under  an  outrageous  plumed  hat.  Two 
blue  eyes  glanced  indifferently  toward  the  group  on 
the  step  and  widened  in  surprise. 

"Lord!  It's  her  High-and-Mightiness,"  said  "the 
traipsin'  'stravagin'  piece"  impertinently.  "WTiat's 
up?  Drunk  and  disorderly,  eh?  Well,  you're  a  soft 
un." 

Then  as  she  bent  to  look  at  the  face  that  lay  against 
Jean's  shoulder,  the  careless  mockery  died  out  of  the 
blue  eyes. 

"Why,  it's  Susan,"  she  said.    "Here's  a  go;  I  told 


56  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

her  she'd  croak  on  the  street  some  day  if  she  didn't 
look  out." 

"If  you'd  go  for  a  policeman,"  Jean  suggested. 

The  "traipsin'  piece"  shook  her  head  scornfully. 

"Not  me!  She'd  thank  me  for  calling  a  cop — not. 
Rather  go  to  the  morgue  than  to  Bellevue,  Susan 
would.  I  bin  tellin'  her  she'd  land  there  if  she  didn't 
let  up ;  but  there's  a  kid  somewheres  and  the  money 'd 
stop  if  she  let  her  job  go,  so  she  felt  as  if  she  had  to 
keep  peggin'  at  it.  She  ain't  as  bad  as  this,  only  in 
spells,  and  the  woman  she  works  for  don't  notice 
nothin*  as  long  as  the  work's  done.  You  hold  her  and 
I'll  get  some  brandy.  That'll  do  it." 

She  was  off  like  a  flash  for  the  nearest  ladies'  en- 
trance, and  Jean  sat  in  the  gathering  dark  with  her 
strong  young  arms  holding  the  limp  body  of  the  girl 
who  had  been  fighting  a  losing  fight  so  near  her  all 
through  the  winter  days  and  nights. 

A  kid  somewhere,  and  a  mistress  who  didn't  notice 
so  long  as  the  work  was  done,  and  only  the  hospital 
when  worst  came  to  worst.  This  was  the  sort  of 
thing  that  made  Cooper  Union  orators.  Wrong, 
wrong — the  whole  world  was  wrong.  She  could 
understand  social  hate,  social  revolution,  anarchy. 
Even  the  fatherly  old  plutocrats  who  had  been  her 
friends  must  go.  They  were  part  of  the  system. 
And  after  the  old  social  order  should  be  swept  away, 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  57 

what?  Her  thoughts  came  back  with  a  jerk  to  the 
girl  in  her  arms  who  stirred  and  moaned. 

Would  the  new  order  be  built  on  only  one's  duty  to 
oneself  and  one's  neighbour?  Or  would  the  old 
selfish  circle  round  itself  out  again? 

Here  was  a  girl  who  had  been  working  just  above 
her  head — working  against  awful  odds — sick,  un- 
happy, afraid,  forlorn,  and  she  herself  had  been 
dodging  loneliness,  trying  to  amuse  herself  during 
leisure  hours,  working  herself  up  to  hysterical  sym- 
pathy with  abstract  wrongs  and  smugly  ignorant 
of  her  neighbour's  need. 

She  hadn't  known — that  was  just  it.  She  ought  to 
have  known.  Katy  had  known — and  helped.  What 
was  it  Katy  had  called  her?  "Her  High-and- 
Mightiness." 

That  was  how  she  had  impressed  other  working  girls. 

Neighbour — a  selfish  snob ;  a  selfish  snob  playing  at 
work,  making  a  game  of  what  was  life  and  death  to 
other  women. 

"Here  you  are.  Lift  her  head  a  little."  Katy 
was  back  and  had  taken  charge  of  the  situation  with 
the  air  of  one  used  to  casualties. 

"That's  it!  Strangled  you  a  bit,  eh,  Susan?  Just  a 
little  more.  That'll  fix  you.  Easy  does  it.  You  keep 
still.  Everything's  all  right.  We'll  get  you  home. 
Lot's  of  time." 


58  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Susan's  face  lost  its  deadly  pallor.  Her  lip:- 
turned  from  blue  to  wan  red;  her  eyes  opened,  but  the 
shadows  under  them  looked  like  bruises  on  the  white, 
sunken  cheeks.  She  tried  to  rise,  tried  to  speak. 
Katy  pushed  her  gently  back  upon  Jean's  shoulder 
and  leaned  over  to  catch  the  words. 

"Late  for  dinner  is  it?"  she  said,  straightening  up 
with  flushed  cheeks  and  reckless  eyes.  "  To  hell  with 
dinner.  Let 'em  wait!  But  then  I  ain't  got  a  kid," 
she  added.  "I  don't  have  to  take  things." 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  WAS  seven  o'clock  when  Jean  slipped  her  latch  key 
into  the  lock  and  turned  it.  Dinner  would  be  late 
but  probably  neither  of  her  Two  would  notice  it.  If 
they  did,  probably  they  wouldn't  care;  and,  if  they 
did  care — well,  in  Katy's  vigorous  phrase,  "to  hell 
with  'em!" 

She  had  taken  Susan  home,  lighted  her  fire,  put  on 
the  dinner  for  her,  seen  her  gradually  gain  strength 
enough  to  drag  herself  to  her  feet  and  move  about  her 
work. 

Later  she  was  going  up  to  wash  the  girl's  dishes 
and  make  her  comfortable  for  the  night — as  com- 
fortable as  she  could  be  made  in  the  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta  that  she  called  her  room.  The  next  day 
Susan  should  see  a  doctor,  things  should  be  done. 
Suddenly  life  seemed  very  full  of  things  to  be  done, 
things  of  vital  moment. 

She  opened  the  door,  entered  quietly,  and  was  con- 
fronted by  Mrs.  Bonner — an  agitated,  pale-faced 
Mrs.  Bonner  who  gave  a  little  cry  of  relief. 

"You're  all  right?"  she  said.     "You're  quite  all 

59 


60  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

right?  I  was  afraid.  I  missed  you;  somehow  or 
other  I  didn't  feel  like  working  and  everything  was 
dark  and  you  weren't  here.  It  made  me  think.  I 
hadn't  thought  before.  I'd  just  been  comfortable. 
You've  made  me  so  comfortable.  But  all  of  a  sudden 
—well,  dinner  never  is  late — and  you're  so  young — 
and  so  pretty — and  there  are  such  dreadful  things  in 
the  papers.  I  called  Mr.  Bonner.  He's  gone  out  but 
I  don't  think  he  quite  understands.  Probably  by 
this  time  he's  forgotten  what  he  went  for.  Oh,  my 
dear,  I'm  so  glad  nothing  had  happened  to  you." 

The  soft  voice  fluttered  on  and  on  breathlessly. 
The  little  gray  lady's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her 
eyes  looked  suspiciously  moist. 

Jean's  sore  heart  warmed  to  her.  It  was  good  to  be 
missed,  to  have  some  one  care.  She  had  fancied  that 
nothing  nearer  than  the  Faroes  was  important  to 
this  absent-minded  mistress. 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  be  late,"  she  apologized  gently. 
"There  was  a  girl  who  works  upstairs.  She  was 
taken  ill  on  the  street  and  I  helped  her  home,  and  then 
I  started  dinner  for  her.  She  was  afraid  her  lady 
would  discharge  her  if  dinner  wasn't  ready." 

"Oh!"  There  was  protest,  indignation  in  Mrs. 
Bonner's  voice.  She  straightened  herself  and  her 
face  lost  some  of  its  gentleness.  "I  didn't  think 
people  really  did;  you  go  right  back  up  to  her,  my  dear. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  61 

It  doesn't  make  any  difference  about  dinner  here. 
Rufus  won't  remember  about  it  anyway,  and  I'll  find 

some  crackers.  I  really  didn't  suppose Still 

we  don't  any  of  us I'm  going  to  look  after  you 

better,  child.  You  are  very  young,  you  know — and 

pretty.  I  don't  believe  it's  quite  right  to If 

you'd  been  ill,  of  course — but  it's  only  a  matter  of 
degree.  Some  people  are  cruel  and  some  are  just 
absent-minded,  and  the  results  are  a  good  deal  the 
same.  You  go  up  to  that  girl,  my  dear.  Has  she 
had  a  doctor?  No?  Rufus  shall  get  one — if  he  isn't 
lost — Rufus,  I  mean.  No,  here  he  is." 

Mr.  Bonner  came  in,  looking  profoundly  dis- 
turbed, but  his  face  cleared  at  sight  of  Jean. 

"There,  Maria.  I  assured  you.  She's  perfectly 
safe." 

"But  there's  a  girl  who's  ill,  Rufus.  You're  to  go 
for  the  doctor." 

Distress  enveloped  the  bewildered  man  once  more. 
He  was  not  used  to  having  the  world's  tide  roll  in  upon 
him. 

"Who — what "  he  stammered. 

Jean  came  to  the  rescue.  "We  might  telephone," 
she  suggested,  "and  if  the  doctor  could  see  her  down 
here,  in  my  room — she  doesn't  want  Mrs.  Collins  to 
know  she's  ill." 

"  Of  course.     It's  Fordyke.     Dr.  William  Fordyke, 


62  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Perhaps  you'd  better  do  the  telephoning.  We  don't 
Jiave  him  often,  but  he'll  know.  I'll  see  him  when  he 
comes.  It  really  is  all  a  matter  of  degree.  I  can  see 
that  quite  plainly,  but  when  one's  interested  in  work 
and  so  very  comfortable " 

Mr.  Bonner  was  already  in  his  study.  Mrs.  Bon- 
ner  headed  toward  hers,  turned  and  came  back. 

"It  isn't  that  I  haven't  appreciated,"  she  said, 
patting  one  of  Jean's  hands  softly.  "I  do  appreciate 
everything,  between  whiles.  Truly  I  do;  but  the 
Faroe  customs  are  so  very  interesting.  Did  you 
know  that  they  still  dance  and  sing  the  old  sagas? 
It's  the  only  place.  So  you  see  I  forget — but  I'm 
going  to  try  to  remember.  People  have  no  right  to 
forget." 

The  doctor  came  at  nine  o'clock  in  spite  of  Susan's 
protests. 

"  He'll  tell  me  to  stop  work  and  worryin',"  she  said 
drearily.  "They  always  do.  As  if  you  could  do  the 
two  things  together.  If  I  stop  work  there'll  be 
enough  to  worry  about.  I  tell  you  that." 

And  Dr.  Fordyke  did  tell  her  to  stop  work — to 
;stop  work  at  once,  and  not  to  worry.  She  listened 
respectfully,  but  there  was  a  queer  expression  in  the 
.great  sunken  eyes  fixed  so  gravely  upon  his  face. 

"With  entire  rest  and  freedom  from  anxiety,"  he 
•explained  to  Mrs.  Bonner  and  Jean  in  his  bland,  pro- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  63 

fessional  manner,  "the  condition  of  the  heart  can  be 
overcome.  I'll  leave  some  medicine  and  she  might  re- 
port to  me  from  time  to  time.  Plenty  of  fresh  air 
and  the  diet  I've  indicated  in  this  list,  and  no  exertion 
of  any  kind.  I  should  advise  at  least  half  of  each  day 
in  bed.  Glad  to  have  seen  you  again,  Mrs.  Bonner. 
You  don't  look  as  if  there  were  danger  of  your  need- 
ing me  professionally.  Mr.  Bonner  well,  too?  That's 
good — not  for  me,  of  course.  You'll  excuse  my 
hurrying  off.  I've  a  long  round  of  visits  to  make. 
"  Complete  rest,  remember,  and  no  responsibilities 


or  worries." 


The  door  closed  behind  him  and  the  three  women 
sat  looking  at  each  other. 

Mrs.  Bonner  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  That  man's 
a  fool,"  she  said  indignantly;  "and  yet  I  don't 
know.  Probably  he's  right  about  what  she  needs, 
and  he's  only  paid  to  prescribe.  Somebody  else 
must  see  to  filling  the  prescription.  Are  you  mar- 
ried, Susan?" 

A  dull  red  steeped  the  girl's  white  cheeks. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Father  or  mother?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Nobody  at  all?" 

Susan  looked  down  at  the  rough,  red  hands  that 
fingered  her  apron,  and  her  lips  twitched  nervously. 


64  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

At  last,  with  a  sudden  defiant  movement,  she  lifted 
her  head. 

"My  little  girl,"  she  said.  Her  voice  rang  hard, 
but  there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes.  She  made  a  move- 
ment as  though  to  go.  The  thing  was  finished  now. 
The  lady  was  through  with  her. 

But  Mrs.  Bonner  was  not  through.  She  had  only 
just  begun. 

"Oh  that  is  nice."  She  beamed  benignly  upon  the 
young  mother  whose  sullen  defiance  melted  into 
blank  surprise. 

"One  can't  be  very  lonely  with  a  little  girl  of  one's 
own.  I've  often  thought — but  the  Faroes  are  ex- 
tremely interesting  and  of  course  one  can't  drag 
children  about.  I've  travelled  a  great  deal.  Do  you 
know  I  went  to  one  of  the  outer  islands  once — with 
the  pastor.  He  hadn't  been  there  before.  It's 
a  bird  island,  just  high  cliffs  and  most  of  the  time 
boats  can't  land  there  at  all.  The  old  pastor  hadn't 
been  strong  enough  for  the  trip  and  the  climb — not 
for  years  and  years;  but  the  new  pastor  would  go. 
He  waited  two  months  before  there  came  weather 
when  the  boatmen  would  attempt  to  make  the  land- 
ing— a  very  dangerous  landing  in  any  weather — but 
finally  they  agreed  to  chance  it,  so  the  pastor  and  I 
went.  A  very  rough  trip.  They  threw  us  out; 
waited  until  a  big  wave  lifted  the  boat  high,  and  then 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  65 

threw  us  to  a  little  ledge  where  there  was  a  foothold 
and  the  island  men  caught  us.  It  was  quite  exciting; 
and  then  the  climb — just  narrow  footpaths  along  the 
face  of  the  cliff.  The  pastor  was  dizzy  I  remember,  but 
he  said  he  was  sure  the  devil  could  climb  the  cliff  and 
a  servant  of  the  Lord  ought  to  be  able  to  do  it.  They 
were  so  glad  to  see  us — the  people;  just  a  few  people 
perched  up  on  that  high  bare  place  with  the  sea  raging 
to  get  at  them.  The  birds  gave  them  their  living. 

"Now  how  did  I  come  to  be  talking  about  the  bird 
island?  Oh,  yes;  there  was  a  girl — such  a  pretty 
young  girl,  and  she  had  a  lovely  little  baby  girl. 
There  hadn't  been  a  pastor  there  since  the  little 
mother  was  born.  The  pastor  christened  her  and 
baptized  her  and  married  her  and  christened  and 
baptized  her  baby,  all  hi  the  one  morning.  He  was  a 
very  solemn  man  and  he  couldn't  see  a  gleam  of 
humour  in  the  thing.  When  he  put  the  record  in  his 
book,  he  wrote:  "A  very  momentous  day  for  this 
young  woman." 

"It  really  was,  wasn't  it?  I  wanted  very  much  to 
stay  there  but  the  boatmen  would  only  Tvait  a  few 
hours  and  I  might  not  have  gotten  away  for  months. 
They  broke  my  arm  getting  me  into  the  boat. 
What's  your  baby's  name,  Susan?" 

"Mary,  ma'am." 

"  The  sweetest  name  in  the  world — and  I'm  sure  the 


66  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

baby  matches  it,  but  I'm  wondering  whether  you're 
strong  enough  to  take  care  of  her.  Cf  course  I'll  send 
her  with  you.  That's  the  best  way  to  mend  your 
heart,  I  think,  but  perhaps  we  could  find  some  one 

—    What  do  you  think,  Jean?" 

"I  think,"  said  her  maid  disrespectfully  but  ador- 
ingly, "that  you  are  a  darling.  That's  what  I 
think." 

That  evening  mistress  and  maid  sat  in  Jean's  room 
and  held  high  converse.  A  barrier  had  been  broken 
down. 

"One  thinks  about  things  in  the  Faroes  and  such 
places,"  the  little  gray  lady  explained;  "but  some  way 
or  other,  when  I'm  here  at  home — it's  different, 
you  know.  People  don't  seem  so  interesting  when 
they  live  riffat  around  you.  You  take  them  for 
granted.  It  doesn't  occur  to  you  that  things  are 
happening  to  them  every  day — that  all  the  really 
big  things  do  happen  to  them.  Do  you  suppose 
things  happened  to  Hannah?  I  can't  quite  imagine 
things  happening  to  Hannah.  Still  she  was  born, 
and  she'll  die.  They're  big.  And  probably  there'll 
be  things  in  between. 

"Now  this  Susan.  She's  not  more  than  twenty- 
seven  or  eight,  is  she?  And  she's  loved  and  sorrowed 
and  borne  a  child  and  worked  and  suffered  and — just 
that  common  £irl!  Is  the  man  dead?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  C7 

" No."  Jean's  voice  was  bitter.  This  was  her  first 
close  contact  with  sex  tragedy.  "He's  married — out 
in  Iowa.  He  left  Susan  before  the  baby  came." 

Mrs.  Bonner  gave  a  soft  little  cluck  of  pity. 

"Poor  girl.  Still  she's  better  off  without  him. 
I  never  could  see  the  comfort  of  keeping  a  worthless 
man  around  just  because  he  happened  to  be  the 
father  of  one's  baby.  Of  course  if  he'd  been  a  decent 
sort — but  he  wasn't.  And  she  has  her  baby.  Funny 
that  a  baby  can  be  a  disgrace  to  a  woman.  I  never 
could  feel  that  way  about  it — disgrace  for  the  man 
that  goes  away  perhaps. 

"Well,  anyway,  there's  Susan  and  there's  the  baby. 
I'm  so  glad  you  found  them,  child.  We'll  send  them 
up  to  Mrs.  Morley  in  the  country.  It  will  be  a  nice 
place  for  them — milk,  you  know,  and  eggs  and  fresh 
air,  and  Mrs.  Morley's  a  good  woman.  She  hasn't 
any  sense  at  all  about  some  things,  but  she  has  a 
kind  heart  and  she  loves  children. 

"Then  when  we  go  to  the  farm  in  April  we  can  see 
how  things  are  going.  Maybe  Susan  will  be  strong 
enough  to  do  our  mending  and  darning  and  little 
things  like  that.  I  hope  it's  a  pretty  little  girl." 

She  coloured  guiltily.  "It's  all  wrong,  I  know. 
One  ought  to  be  above  such  things,  but  I  do  find  it  so 
much  easier  to  love  my  neighbour  if  she's  good  to  look 
at." 


68  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Jean  laughed. 

"Susan  would  be  nice  looking  herself  if  she  weren't 
so  pale  and  thin.  I'll  bet  Mary's  a  duck." 

Her  thoughts  swung  round  to  her  own  affairs. 
There  was  a  farm,  and  the  Bonners  went  to  it  in 
April.  Would  they  want  to  take  her — and  would 
she  want  to  go? 

"WTiere  is  your  farm?"  she  asked,  by  way  of  lead- 
ing up  to  the  main  issue.  April !  This  was  the  first  of 
March.  It  was  disconcerting  to  find  that  within  a 
month  she  was  to  be  torn  up  by  the  roots. 

Mrs.  Bonner's  gentle  face  kindled  with  enthusiasm. 

"Haven't  I  told  you  about  it?  I  usually  tell  people 
about  it  as  soon  as  I  meet  them.  It's  in  Connecticut, 
on  the  river.  There's  no  river  sweeter  than  the 
Connecticut.  I'm  sure  of  it.  I've  gone  about  quite 
a  bit  hunting  up  rivers  just  to  see.  Some  have  falls, 
of  course,  but  falls  never  seem  real  to  me.  They're  so 
spectacular.  I  always  feel  as  though  Burton  Holmes 
or  some  of  those  travelogue  people  were  showing  them 
to  me — on  a  screen.  The  Connecticut's  a  perfectly 
real  river,  all  the  way  from  the  beginning  to  the 
Sound.  You'll  love  it.  I'm  sure  you  will.  It's  the 
comfortable  kind  of  river  that  plays  around  at  first 
like  any  child  but  quiets  down  as  it  grows  up  and  goes 
flowing«along  through  farmlands  and  past  houses,  and 
between  hills  that  aren't  too  high  for  grain  fields  to 


HOW  COULD   YOU,  JEAN?  69 

climb.  Wooded  hills,  too.  Of  course  there  are 
wooded  hills.  Our  own  hill's  wooded,  but  it's  a 
friendly  bit  of  woodland — all  full  of  cowpaths  and 
laurel;  and  then  there's  a  place  at  the  end  of  our  lane 
where  the  hilltop  is  bare — a  great  big  shoulder  of  rock 
above  the  treetops — with  huckleberry  bushes  and 
sumach  and  lichens  rolling  up  against  it. 

"I've  never  been  able  to  decide  what  kind  of  a  day 
I  love  most  on  that  hilltop — or  what  time  in  the  day. 

"It's  splendid  to  watch  a  gathering  storm  from 
there,  but  on  a  perfect  summer  day — yes,  I  believe 
that's  best.  Sometimes  I  go  down  there  in  the 
very  early  morning.  It's  wonderful  then — when  the 
houses  are  asleep  but  the  birds  are  all  awake  and  the 
valley's  stirring  just  a  little  and  stretching  itself. 
You  must  se,e  it  then,  Jean.  Down  where  you  know 
the  river  is  you  can  only  see  heaped-up  mist;  like 
fallen  clouds  it  looks,  and  some  of  them  come  floating 
up  and  up  until  they  get  tangled  in  the  cedars  just 
below  one's  feet,  but  they  never  reach  the  level  top. 
One's  always  in  the  clear  of  the  morning  up  there. 
Oh,  yes,  it's  wonderful  then;  but  at  noon — on  a  mid- 
summer day — a  path  of  liquid  gold  and  blue  as  far  as 
you  can  see,  and  the  hills  drov/sing  in  the  sunshine, 
and  the  fields  spread  out  like  checker  boards  in 
squares  of  different-coloured  grains,  and  the  tower 
of  the  white  church  in  the  little  town  across  the  river 


70  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

pointing  up  into  the  blue.  Don't  you  think  churches 
should  always  have  white  pointing  fingers,  child?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes  but  her  eyes  were 
seeing  visions. 

"And  the  sunsets " 

Evidently  she  felt  unable  to  deal  with  the  sunsets 
for  she  fell  into  silence  again. 

"The  sunsets?"  Jean  prompted. 

The  little  gray  lady  shook  her  head  helplessly  and 
took  up  the  story. 

"We  have  supper  either  early  or  late  so  that  we  can 
always  go  down  to  see  the  sunsets.  The  sun  drops 
right  down  into  the  river,  over  at  the  rim  of  the 
world,  and  there's  a  path  of  glory  to  it;  and  the  sky's 
a  miracle  of  gorgeousness  in  the  west  and  of  tender- 
ness in  the  east;  and  the  ridges  that  run  down  to  the 
river  grow  bluer  and  darker  and  the  ravines  are 
purple,  and  you  hear  little  wings  fluttering.  It's— 
why  it's  like  Revelations,  Jean!  The  cattle  coming 
up  from  the  pastures  might  be  the  Beasts  of  the 
Apocalypse.  That  hilltop's  the  greatest  preacher  I've 
ever  known.  I  don't  believe  any  one  could  be  bitter 
or  cynical  or  discouraged  or  weary  of  heart  on  my  hill- 
top. 

"I'm  a  fool  about  the  farm.  I'm  downright  fey 
about  it,  I  can't  even  seem  to  care  about  the  Faroes 
when  I'm  up  there.  That's  why  I  try  to  work  so 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  71 

steadily  all  winter.  One  might  as  well  shut  oneself 
up  and  work  in  the  city.  There's  nothing  calling  one 
outside." 

Suddenly  her  face  clouded.  She  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  looked  at  Jean  with  a  little  furrow  between 
her  kindly  eyes. 

"That's  just  it,"  she  said.  "That's  where  I've 
made  my  mistake.  There's  enough  calling,  always. 
I  don't  hear,  that's  all.  Susan's  been  calling — and 
the  others.  It  isn't  pleasant  to  hear,  but — well,  the 
city  ought  to  be  the  worst  place  in  the  world  for 
shutting  oneself  away  behind  closed  doors." 

The  girl  who  was  listening  looked  wonderingly  at 
the  little  woman  in  gray. 

Here  was  a  new  Mrs.  Bonner — and  even  the  old 
Mrs.  Bonner  was  new.  A  gentle,  near-sighted, 
absent-minded,  futile  little  woman  Jean  had  thought 
her — sweet  and  lovable  in  her  way,  but  as  neutral  as 
the  grays  in  which  she  clothed  herself;  but  now — with 
her  careless  talk  of  adventure  in  far  lands,  of  sea  dar- 
ing and  cliff  climbing,  and  broken  arms,  her  quick 
sympathy  and  indifference  to  conventional  standards, 
her  eager  love  of  river  and  hills  and  her  sudden  sense 
of  responsibility  for  her  city  neighbour — there  was  no 
doubt  about  it.  She  was  a  darling  and  Jean  mentally 
apologized  to  her  as  she  led  her  thoughts  back  to  the 
Connecticut  Valley. 


72  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"It's  a  real  farm?" 

Mrs.  Bonner  laughed  her  chuckling,  delightful  little 
laugh  that  was  like  the  sound  of  water  running  over 
and  among  mossy  stones. 

"We  call  it  a  farm,  my  dear.  It  was  a  farm  in  Mr. 
Bonner 's  great-great-great-grandfather's  time.  Four 
hundred  acres,  I  believe — mostly  of  rocks.  Land  has 
been  sold  from  time  to  time.  I  think  we  have 
seventy-five  acres  now,  but  that's  enough.  Rough 
pasture  a  good  deal  of  it,  and  a  few  good  cleared  fields, 
and  some  woodland  and  an  orchard,  and  gardens  and 
the  old  house.  Wait  a  minute.  I'll  show  you." 

She  rose  and  went  away  down  the  hall.  When  she 
came  back  she  carried  a  book  bound  in  black  leather. 

"These  are  my  farm  pictures."  She  was  smiling 
happily.  Her  white  hands  handled  the  book  as 
though  they  loved  it. 

Jean  slipped  from  her  chair  to  the  floor  beside  the 
gray-clad  knees,  and  looked  at  the  first  picture.  It 
showed  a  white  farmhouse  among  great  maple  trees, 
the  sort  of  a  farmhouse  exiles  from  New  England  see 
in  their  dreams.  A  white  picket  fence  shut  tJbe  trim 
front  yard  away  from  the  big  triangle  of  green 
sward  around  which  the  road  ran,  doubling  back  upon 
itself. 

"We're  at  the  end  of  the  road,"  Mrs.  Bonner 
explained.  "I  like  that.  No  motor  cars  roaring 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  73 

by.  We're  quite  out  of  the  world.  I  wonder  if  you'll 
be  lonely." 

Jean  was  turning  the  pages,  eagerly,  hastily. 
River  and  woods,  fields  and  gardens,  orchards  and 
far  blue  hills !  Such  a  homely,  friendly,  lovable  bit  of 
New  England!  So  utterly  unlike  those  Italian- 
terraced,  and  Gothic-towered,  and  English-timbered 
country  places  where  she  had  golfed  and  motored,  and 
played  tennis  and  ridden  and  swam  and  flirted 
through  her  previous  summers.  One  could  love  a 
farm  like  that.  Some  day  she  would  own  one. 

"I  think  I'll  give  you  the  pink  room,"  Mrs.  Bonner 
was  saying.  "You  can't  see  the  river  from  it,  but  it 
has  such  a  wonderful  view  of  the  hills  and  you'll  like 
the  paper.  It's  a  very  foolish  paper  with  bridges  and 
boats  and  summer  houses  and  ducks  on  it;  but  there 
isn't  a  bath.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that — 
and  no  hot  and  cold  water  in  the  kitchen.  Jane  put 
up  with  it,  but  she  said  nobody  else  would.  I  sup- 
pose you  won't  go." 

She  was  overwhelmed.  Calamity  had  come  upon 
her  suddenly,  unexpectedly.  Life  had  been  so  com- 
fortable, so  pleasant.  She  had  quite  forgotten  about 
the  hot  and  cold  water. 

"I  can't  blame  you,"  she  said  woefully.  "It  does 
make  the  work  hard.  I  couldn't  expect  a  girl  like  you 
to  put  up  with  it." 


74  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Jean  turned  back  to  the  picture  of  the  white  house 
among  the  maples  and  gloated  over  it. 

"You  couldn't  keep  me  away  by  anything  short  of 
murder."  Her  voice  was  dreaming.  "I  can  see  it — • 
and  smell  it — and  hear  the  wind  in  the  leaves." 

Mrs.  Bonner  slipped  her  arm  around  the  girl's 
shoulders  and  gave  her  a  quick  little  squeeze. 

"My  dear,"  she  said.  "My  dear!  You  will  hea* 
the  orioles!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

MRS.  BONNER'S  guest  room  for  the  first  time  fulfilled 
its  original  mission.  For  six  days  Susan  was  in 
harbour  there  and  on  the  second  of  the  six  days 
Mary  joined  her  mother.  Jean's  prophetic  spirit  had 
not  fooled  her.  Mary  was  a  duck — a  round,  dimpled, 
yellow-haired,  five-year-old  scrap  of  humanity  with 
wheedling  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  and  mischief  in 
the  tail  of  her  twinkling  blue  eye. 

"She's  not  meek  and  mild  enough  for  a  Mary," 
Jean  protested  when  she  stopped  hugging  the  small 
woman  and  held  her  off  for  a  second  look  at 
her. 

"I  call  her  Molly,"  Susan  said  shyly.  She  was  no 
longer  sullen  and  dull-eyed,  but  shyness  had  fallen 
upon  her  like  a  mantle.  One  cannot  make  free  with 
the  Saints. 

"Molly  it  is."  Jean  gave  the  child  another  hug. 
"Molly's  a  name  that  goes  with  dimples." 

"She's  had  good  food,"  Molly's  mother  said 
proudly;  and,  counting  the  cost  of  the  dimples,  Jean 
sighed. 

75 


76  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Mrs.  Bonner  herself  had  broken  to  Mrs.  Collins  the 
news  that  she  was  about  to  lose  a  maid. 

"It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  do  it,"  she  had  insisted, 
"and  if  the  woman  is  disagreeable — there  are  several 
things  I'd  like  to  say  to  her." 

She  was  as  serene  as  ever  but  there  was  a  quality 
in  her  gentleness  that  made  one  think  of  the  cliff  path 
and  the  tossing  boat.  When  the  little  gray  lady  was 
interested  in  a  thing,  her  absentmindedness  became 
concentration.  For  a  long  time  she  had  not  been  in- 
terested in  anything  except  the  Faroes;  but  now 
that  Susan's  need  had  been  forced  upon  her  attention, 
she  went  about  meeting  it  with  a  fixity  of  purpose  that 
admitted  no  obstacle. 

As  it  happened,  Mrs.  Collins  was  not  actively  dis- 
agreeable. She  was  a  stout,  impressive,  dressy  woman 
who  was  greatly  surprised  to  hear  that  her  maid 
was  ill. 

"Susan  hasn't  said  anything  about  feeling  badly," 
she  explained.  "And  therwork  went  very  well.  I'm 
away  a  good  deal.  My  club  work  takes  so  much  of 
my  time  but  everything  was  always  in  perfect  order 
here.  I'm  not  one  of  the  club  women  who  neglect 
their  homes"  [she  was  very  emphatic  on  that  last 
point.  Women  with  public  spirit  and  the  larger 
vision  were  so  often  misjudged,  maligned,  and  it 
hurt  the  cause]. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  77 

"Our  first  duty  is  to  the  home";  she  was  addressing 
Mrs.  Bonner  in  her  best  platform  manner;  "but  an 
intelligently  administered  home  need  not  consume  all 
of  a  woman's  time.  Now  that  so  much  of  woman's 
home  work  has  been  taken  over  by  the  factories,  and 
she  is  left  with  idle  hands,  she  cannot  limit  her  sphere 
to  the  home.  The  world  needs  her.  She  has  time, 
after  her  home  duties  are  met,  to  give  herself  to  the 
burning  public  questions,  to  the  social  uplift,  the 
freeing  of  woman,  the — • — " 

"The  doctor  says  that  Susan  must  have  absolute 
rest  and  freedom  from  care,"  Mrs.  Bonner  inter- 
rupted the  fervid  peroration  quietly  but  ruth- 
lessly. In  her  near-sighted  way  she  saw  only  one 
burning  question  and  that  the  stout  lady  in  purple 
velvet  had  apparently  overlooked. 

"She's  very  sorry  not  to  give  you  the  usual  week's 
notice  but  the  doctor  says  she's  reached  her  limit — 
passed  it.  I'm  sending  her  to  the  country.  My  maid 
will  come  up  and  pack  her  things." 

"You're  very  good,  I'm  sure,"  Mrs.  Collins  faintly 
resented  the  virtue  in  her  visitor,  but  the  resent- 
ment was  tempered  by  relief  that  the  matter  was  out 
of  her  hands.  A  sick  servant  was  trying.  There  was 
the  hospital,  of  course,  but  some  women  were  so  un- 
reasonable about  hospitals.  One  never  knew  quite 
what  to  do — and  with  the  convention  coming  on.  It 


78  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

really  was  fortunate  that  the  girl  had  friends  who 
would  look  after  her. 

"Very  good,"  she  repeated.  "I  hope  Susan  appre- 
ciates. They  so  seldom  do.  You  may  tell  her  for  me 
that  it's  quite  all  right  about  the  week's  notice.  Of 
course  it  was  inconsiderate.  She  might  have  thought; 
still  one  can't  expect  them  to  feel  things  as  we  do,  and 
there's  a  woman  who  comes  in  sometimes,  a  very 
good  woman.  I  can  get  along." 

Mrs.  Bonner  had  not  sat  down  when  invited  to  do 
so.  She  turned  and  moved  hastily  toward  the  door. 

"It's  pleasant  to  have  met  you,"  boomed  the 
oratorical  voice.  "I  wonder  if  you — but  of  course 
you  are  interested  in ' 

"I'm  interested  in  Susan,"  the  visitor  said  curtly 
as  she  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

She  arrived  in  her  own  apartment  red  cheeked, 
shining  eyed,  short  of  breath. 

"No  use  saying  things  to  that  woman,"  she  gasped, 
answering  the  question  in  Jean's  eyes.  "  One  might  as 
well  shoot  peas  at  a  rhinoceros.  Go  up  and  pack 
Susan's  things,  child;  though  I've  an  idea  she's  little 
to  pack — except  Molly." 

The  guest  room  was  the  centre  of  great  activity 
that  week.  Mrs.  Bonner  went  shopping  and  bundles 
of  all  sorts  and  sizes  came  piling  in.  Very  few  of 
them,  when  opened,  proved  to  be  things  needed  and 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  79 

sent  for,  but  they  were  all  useful  in  a  hit-and-miss  way 
and  some  of  them  were  exceedingly  pretty.  There 
was  a  quilted  pink  silk  lounging  robe,  for  instance, 
at  which  Susan  looked  with  awe-struck,  unbelieving 
eyes. 

"Yes,  it's  for  Susan,"  the  little  gray  lady  insisted 
when  attacked  about  it.  "No;  I  know  pink  silk  isn't 
practical.  I  tried  to  buy  a  dark  blue  eiderdown  but 
I  couldn't.  I  really  couldn't.  The  pink  one  was  so 
soft  and  light  and  pretty.  Susan's  worn  out  her  heart 
being  practical.  Maybe  pink  silk  will  be  good  for 
her.  A  pink  silk  dressing  gown,  and  Molly,  and 
spring  in  the  country,  ought  to  brace  up  the  tiredesi 
kind  of  a  heart.  The  robins  are  hopping  around  Mrs. 
,  Morley's  dooryard  by  now,  Jean." 

So  Susan,  still  incredulous,  kept  the  pink  silk  robe, 
but  by  way  of  reinforcement,  her  gray  cotton  flan- 
nel wrapper  was  washed  and  mended.  All  her  old 
clothes  and  Molly's — a  scanty  all — were  put  in  order 
for  country  visiting.  Katy  came  over  in  the  even- 
ings and  helped.  She  had  a  clever  knack  of 
trimming  hats,  if  an  effulgent  fancy  was  properly 
restrained,  and  she  could  work  wonders  with  an  old 
waist  or  skirt,  if  nobody  cared  about  the  length  of 
her  stitches. 

Her  language  was  racy  and  her  views  on  life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  were  somewhat 


80  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

startling  to  the  orthodox;  but  her  heart  was  in  the 
right  place,  and  she  worked  like  a  beaver  for  Susan 
though  she  had  the  poorest  sort  of  an  opinion  of  the 
sick  girl's  intellect. 

"Wurkin'  yersilf  to  death,  is  it?  More  fool  you. 
It's  not  necessary  at  all — and  gurrls  so  scarce  the 
madams  are  afraid  to  say  their  souls  are  their  own,  for 
fear  their  cook'll  think  different  and  lave!  I  do  my 
wurrk  af ther  me  own  way.  They  can  take  it  or  lave  it. 
There's  always  them  that'll  take  it.  And  I  don't 
stand  no  back  talk  nor  no  pokin'  around  in  my 
kitchen.  'Is  the  ice  box  clane?  And  was  the  cold 
beans  saved,  and  how  did  the  gravy  bowl  get  bruk?' 
None  av  that  for  me.  She  kapes  to  her  part  of  the 
house  and  I  kape  to  mine.  If  she  don't,  I  give 
notice.  There's  some  as  will  let  their  madams  drool 
on  about  followers  and  'what  time  d'ye  come  in?' 
and  all  that.  Not  me!  If  I  want  to  be  dancin'  the 
feet  off  me  at  the  Palace  all  night  wid  Johnny,  it's 
nobody's  business  but  my  own,  so  long  as  breakfast's 
on  time.  I'll  go  as  I  plase  and  I'll  come  as  I  plase. 
The  lady  I'm  wurrkin'  for  now  does  that  same — it's 
none  av  my  business,  but  if  her  husband  'ud  come 
home  off  the  road  unexpected  he  might  make  it  his 
business." 

She  was  young  and  pretty,  reckless  and  slatternly 
and  conscienceless — but  she  let  Johnny  dance  with 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  81 

some  one  else  for  six  nights  and  she  bought  Molly  a 
most  absurdly  expensive  white  coat  in  which  the 
child  looked  more  of  a  duck  than  ever;  and  when 
Susan  and  the  small  girl  went  to  their  train 
Molly  was  clutching  a  new  doll  that  Katy  had 
given  her,  and  in  Susan's  bag  was  a  five-dollar  bill 
that  Katy  had  tucked  away  there  when  no  one  was 
looking. 

Thyra,  the  "knowledgeable  body"  had  come  to 
Susan's  aid,  too. 

A  very  different  story  was  Thyra — clean,  tidy, 
wholesome-looking,  clear-eyed,  pleasant-voiced,  and 
oozing  efficiency  at  the  pores. 

She  listened  quietly  to  Katy's  tirades  while  she 
sewed  on  buttons  and  darned  stockings,  and  she 
accomplished  a  most  astonishing  amount  of  work, 
making  pinafores  for  Molly,  stirring  up  eggnogs  that 
were  the  only  things  Susan  would  swallow  without 
protests,  teaching  Jean — on  request — some  amazingly 
simple  and  as  amazingly  helpful  things  about  cleaning 
bath  tubs,  washing  pots  and  pans,  and  keeping  dish 
cloths  white.  She  was  kind,  helpful.  No  one  could 
have  failed  to  respect  her,  but  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  love  her.  She  did  not  open  the  door  to 
sentiment.  Probably  she  would  not  have  been  so 
quietly  efficient  if  emotions  had  ever  had  their  way 
with  her. 


82  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"I've  always  had  good  places,"  she  told  Jean,  "and 
pleasant  ladies.  You  mustn't  expect  too  much  of 
them  but  you're  pretty  likely  to  get  as  you  give.  No- 
body's treated  me  bad.  Katy's  the  kind  that'll 
come  to  no  good.  She  doesn't  mean  bad,  but  she's 
always  wanting  something  that  we  can't  have  in  our 
station  of  life.  She  can't  give  up  that  gay  times  ain't 
for  everybody.  She's  going  to  have  them,  no  matter 
what;  and  she  can't  have  them  and  do  her  work  right 
and  keep  well,  so  she  don't  stay  in  good  places.  She's 
all  for  dancing  and  dressing  and  gadding  and  loving, 
but  they  don't  go  good  with  general  housework. 
There's  lots  that  hold  with  her.  Folks  ain't  got  a 
right  to  be  poking  into  their  affairs,  after  work's  done, 
they  say.  Most  girls  won't  work  out  just  on  that 
account,  but  the  kind  of  ladies  that  make  good  mis- 
tresses don't  like  girls  staying  out  till  morning.  I 
never  was  one  for  running  nights  anyway." 

So  sensible,  so  calm,  so  unshaken  by  tempera- 
mental storms.  Her  theories  were  right,  absolutely 
right.  They  would  work  out  perfectly. 

She  had  a  young  man — an  electrician. 

"I  cou  d  have  had  a  grocer  but  a  trade's  best," 
she  said  in  her  matter-of-fact  way.  "There's  always 
work  at  a  good  trade  if  a  fellow's  steady.  Five  dollars 
a  day  and  he  don't  drink  or  run  with  women.  Next 
year  we'll  have  money  enough  to  put  by  for  sickness 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  83 

and  things  that  might  happen.  Then  we'll  get 
•married." 

"It's  hard  to  wait,  isn't  it?"  Jean  was  warmly 
sympathetic,  but  Thyra  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know.  A  home's  best  when  you're 
gettin'  older  and  Olaf  s  steady;  but  I've  my  own  way 
now  and  my  own  money  and  my  lady's  good.  I  get 
twenty-five  dollars  at  Christmas.  No — I'd  just  as 
soon  wait." 

A  most  sensible  young  person;  but  Jean's  heart 
went  out  to  poor,  foolish,  pretty  Katy,  clutching  at 
youth  and  love  and  laughter,  headed  for  "no  good." 

There  were  maids  and  maids  as  there  were  mis- 
tresses and  mistresses.  Rules  would  not  fit  here  any 
more  than  they  would  fit  elsewhere.  It  all  came 
back  to  the  old  teasing  problem. 

Something  ought  to  be  done;  but  what? 

One  thing  at  least  was  done.  Susan  and  Molly 
were  sent  to  the  country.  Jean  saw  them  off,  Susan 
white  and  weak,  and  a  little  afraid  to  let  go  the 
hand  that  had  been  stretched  out  to  her  in  her 
drowning  hour,  Molly  ecstatically  hugging  her  new 
doll  and  smiling  confidingly  at  all  the  travelling  world. 

In  due  time  came  a  grateful  letter  from  Susan  to 
Jean.  She  was  comfortable.  Mrs.  Morley  was  good. 
Molly  was  happy. 

Mrs.  Morley  wrote  to  Mrs.  Bonner  later. 


84  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"The  young  woman's  doing  well,"  she  said,  "but 
she'll  need  a  long  rest  and  she  doesn't  relish  her 
victuals  as  I'd  like  her  to.  The  baby's  hungry 
enough  for  two  though,  and  she's  got  everybody  on 
the  place  fair  bewitched.  Jim,  the  boy  that's  doing 
chores  for  me,  isn't  a  blessed  bit  of  good  since  she 
came.  He's  always  off  somewhere  with  her  after 
something  that  can't  wait.  Old  Mr.  Masters  that 
lives  down  the  road  let  her  bring  home  one  of  his  pigs 
yesterday — pink  little  baby  pig  as  clean  as  ice.  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  old  Masters  would  do  it  for 
anybody.  She  tied  a  blue  bow  to  its  tail  and  fed  it 
warm  milk  and  teased  until  her  mother  made  it  a  little 
apron,  but  she  took  it  back  to-day  because  she'd 
promised.  She's  real  good  at  keeping  promises  but 
it's  lucky  Silver  had  kittens  last  night.  It'd  have 
gone  right  hard  with  the  little  thing  to  give  up  that 
pig  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  kittens.  We  drown  them 
most  always  but  we  couldn't  get  one  of  them  away 
from  her  long  enough.  I  don't  know  that  Jim  would 
do  it  anyway.  She's  worried  most  to  death  about 
their  eyes  being  shut." 

"I  rather  thought  Molly  would  liven  things  up 
at  Mrs.  Morley's,"  the  little  gray  lady  commented 
as  she  gave  the  letter  to  Jean  who  laughed  as  she 
read  it  but  lapsed  into  seriousness  as  she  thought  it 
over. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  85 

"I'm  sorry  Susan  won't  eat,"  she  said  anxiously. 
"The  doctor  said  she  needed  building  up." 

Mrs.  Bonner  chuckled. 

"Don't  you  fret  about  her  not  eating.  You  don't 
know  Mrs.  Morley.  Mrs.  Morley,  my  dear,  is  a 
woman  with  an  obsession  for  feeding  people.  It's 
her  greatest  joy  in  life.  When  she  hasn't  anybody  to 
feed  she  feeds  the  animals  on  the  place.  Blossom,  her 
horse,  is  so  fat  she  can  hardly  move  and  has  heaves 
into  the  bargain,  and  Dick,  her  collie,  is  a  monstros- 
ity. If  you  don't  eat  until  you're  gorged,  she  mourns 
over  your  not  relishing  your  victuals.  -  Susan's  pro- 
bably eating  quite  as  much  as  is  good  for  her  and 
Molly's  eating  much  more  than  is  good  for  her.  I'll 
say  this  for  Mrs.  Morley.  Her  cooking  would  tempt 
a  wooden  man  to  gluttony." 

March  went  by,  a  month  of  snow  flurries  and  raw 
winds,  with  now  and  then  a  mocking  sunshiny  day 
that  hinted  at  spring's  coming. 

Mrs.  Bonner  refused  to  be  depressed  by  the 
weather. 

"After  March  comes  April,"  she  would  say  cheer- 
fully, as  she  looked  out  into  driving  sleet.  "There 
are  bluebirds  in  my  pasture!" 

She  was  restless  since  she  knew  that  the  bluebirds 
had  come.  The  door  of  her  study  stood  open  much 
of  the  time  while  she  wandered  about  the  apartment 


86  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

from  window  to  window  or  talked  with  Jean  wher- 
ever the  girl  happened  to  be. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  admitted  with  a  rueful  smi'c 
at  her  own  idleness.  "Spring's  no  time  for  work, 
and  March  is  spring  even  if  it  doesn't  look  it.  The 
calendar  says  so  and  there's  something  in  my  blood 
that  says  so,  too.  I  always  used  to  begin  packing  in 
March.  Generally  I  didn't  have  the  faintest  idea 
where  I  would  go  but  I  knew  that  I  was  going  and 
that  I  was  pretty  sure  to  head  north  like  the  other 
wild  geese." 

She  looked  so  plump  and  placid  and  homekeeping, 
standing  there  by  the  kitchen  window  in  her  gray 
dress.  One  could  not  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagina- 
tion associate  her  with  wild-goose  flights. 

Perhaps  she  saw  the  wonder  in  Jean's  eyes. 

"I  was  born  in  a  Hudson  Bay  trading  post,"  she 
explained.  "That's  how  the  North  got  into  my 
blood,  though  my  mother  was  an  Alabama  girl; 
timid,  gentle  little  mouse  of  a  woman  they  tell  me. 
She  died  when  I  was  a  few  months  old,  and  father 
came  back  to  the  States  with  me  but  he  couldn't 
stand  it  here.  So  he  left  me  with  mother's  people 
and  went  back.  I  can't  remember  him  but  I  know 
how  he  felt,  and  I'm  glad  he  went.  He'd  have  hated 
to  die  down  here." 

"Did  he  die  there?"  Jean  asked  softly. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  87 

"Yes,  on  the  trail;  that's  the  way  he  wanted  it  I 
think/' 

"And  you- 

"  Oh  I  grew  up  in  Alabama.  Everybody  said  I  was 
like  mother,  and  I  was ;  but  when  I  was  old  enough  to 
go  my  own  road,  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  the 
North.  I'm  afraid  of  a  mouse  and  I'd  run  miles  from 
a  cow,  but  I've  enjoyed  almost  freezing  to  death  in  a 
lot  of  queer  places.  I  had  to  have  an  excuse,  so  I 
went 'in  for  folk-lore  and  natural  science — collected 
specimens  and  made  millions  of  notes.  That's  how  I 
happened  to  go  to  the  Faroes.  I'd  been  to  Iceland 
after  some  plants  and  somebody  told  me  there  were 
more  of  the  same  sort  in  the  Faroes.  So  I  stopped 
over  a  boat — and  stayed  six  years.  It's  a  terribly 
hard  life  they  live  there — hard  and  bleak — just  a 
fight  from  year's  end  to  year's  end ;  but  I  loved  it,  and 
it  was  a  great  place  for  riding  my  hobbies. 

"When  I  came  home,  I  lectured  to  some  scientific 
people.  That  scared  me,  right  enough.  It's  the 
very  worst  form  of  freezing  to  death;  but  that's  where 
I  met  Mr.  Bonner.  He  wasn't  so  wrapped  up  in 
moths  as  he  is  now  and  we  fell  in  love  and  married, 
and  have  been  happy.  We  had  our  scientific  in- 
terests and  our  writing,  and  after  a  while  we  got  the 
farm.  It  isn't  very  far  north,  but  it's  a  great  comfort 
when  spring  comes  along.  I  couldn't  go  far,  you 


88  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

know.  Rufus  needs  me.  Most  of  the  time  we're  too 
busy  to  speak  to  each  other,  but  he'd  know  if  I  weren't 
here — and  he'd  miss  me.  He  can't  work  unless 
he  knows  I'm  around  somewhere,  and  he's  doing 

very  important  work.     But  when  spring  comes 

There  are  so  many  places  I've  never  been."  [She 
turned  to  the  window  and  looked  down  into  the  grimy 
little  back  yard.]  "Big,  quiet,  white  places,"  she 
said  dreamily. 

Jean  once  more  mentally  readjusted  her  ideas 
about  the  little  lady  in  gray.  She  had  been  doing  a 
good  deal  of  such  readjusting.  Snapshot  classifica- 
tions it  seemed  were  unreliable  things.  She  wouldn't 
be  surprised  now  to  see  Mr.  Bonner  fox-trot  out  of  his 
study  in  a  pink  waistcoat  and  gray  spats,  and  an- 
nounce that  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Winter  Garden. 
After  all,  why  not?  There  were  moths  a-plenty  up 
and  down  Broadway. 


CHAPTER  VII 

APRIL  was  masquerading  as  May.  A  week  of  rain 
followed  by  sunshine  and  summer  heat  had  dragged 
even  the  city  into  the  mumming  and — though  all  city 
folk,  from  English  sparrow  to  Wall-Street  money- 
kings,  knew  that  snow  and  sleet  might  be  lurking 
round  the  next  weather  corner — every  one  of  them 
whose  blood  was  still  capable  of  swifter  and  warmer 
flow  lent  himself  to  the  whimsey.  The  sparrow 
flirted  his  tail  more  audaciously,  stole  scattered  grain 
even  out  of  delivery  trucks,  and  made  swaggering 
love  to  his  neighbour's  wife.  The  Wall-Street  man 
put  on  a  fancy  waistcoat,  took  a  reckless  flier  in  stocks, 
and  sent  large  boxes  of  daffodils  and  narcissi  to 
various  young  women  who,  under  the  influence  of 
the  weather,  sentimentalized  over  them,  though,  as  a 
usual  thing,  they  preferred  American  Beauties  or 
orchids. 

Teddy  Burton,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  his 
friend  Kennedy  Coles's  Twelfth  Street  house,  drew 
a  long  breath  and  smiled — for  no  particular  reason, 
but  just  because  he  felt  like  smiling. 


90  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

He  had  returned  from  a  West  Indies  cruise  onK 
the  day  before  and  had  cursed  New  York  climate 
fluently  as  he  came  up  the  Bay  in  a  raw,  north  wind 
under  a  leaden  sky;  but,  this  morning— 

"After  all,  give  me  a  northern  spring,"  he  said  to 
the  man  beside  him,  while  his  smile  broadened. 
"You're  never  sure  what  it  will  do  to  you,  but  it's  so 
blamed  nice,  when  it  is  nice.  I'll  take  my  weather 
and  my  girls  that  way,  thank  you." 

"Easy  to  find  your  weather  and  your  girl  to  fit 
those  specifications."  Coles  was  a  bit  crusty,  even  on 
a  day  when  the  stunted  trees  along  the  asphalt  street 
were  groping  up  toward  an  azure  sky  and  easing  their 
swelling  hearts  in  leaf  and  bud.  If  he  had  been 
susceptible  to  glamour,  he  would  never  have  been,  at 
forty,  a  successful  architect  with  a  big,  old  house  and 
two  Japanese  servants,  and  a  liberal  income  of  his 
own,  but  yet  a  bachelor. 

Teddy  tipped  his  hat  farther  back  on  his  head  and 
looked  down  at  his  necktie  with  disapproval  in  his 
eyes.  For  half  a  fcent  he  would  have  gone  back  up- 
stairs and  changed  that  dark  blue  tie  for  a  certain 
light  and  cheerful  red  one,  more  in  harmony  with  his 
spirits  and  the  day. 

"  I  didn't  say  anything  about  my  ' girl.' "  His  mind 
was  still  on  his  tie,  but  something  in  his  friend's  tone 
jarred  on  his  May-time  mood.  Hang  it  all,  Coles 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  91 

couldn't  forget  that  it  was  April.  Probably  he  was 
still  frozen  in,  back  in  March. 

"No.  I  didn't  say  anything  about  my  'girl,'"  he 
repeated.  "I  said 'girls';  that's  different.  A  fellow 
takes  girls  and  weather  as  they  come,  and  I  merely  re- 
marked that  I'd  take  them  capricious.  That's  how 
I'd  jolly  well  have  to  take  them  anyway,  I  suppose. 
But  as  for  the  girl — she  may  be  capricious;  but, 
Coles " 

"Go  over  and  quote  your  poetry  to  the  sparrows 
in  the  churchyard,"  urged  the  older  man.  " Be  merci- 
ful to  your  friends." 

Teddy  looked  at  him  pityingly.  "Coles,  if  you'd 
quit  building  houses  and  build  air  castles  for  a  while 
it  might  not  improve  your  front  elevation  but  it'd 
brighten  up  your  interior  a  whole  lot.  I'd  quote 
poetry  to  you  if  I  knew  any.  You  need  it  more  than 
the  sparrows.  The  Lord's  looking  out  for  them — 
we've  got  the  Bible  for  that — but  I'm  afraid  He's 
taken  his  eye  off  you.  Now,  as  I  was  saying,  when 
the  Girl  comes  along f9 

And  just  then  she  came  along. 

He  knew  it  the  moment  he  saw  her,  though  he  did 
not  know  that  he  knew  it.  He  only  knew  that  the 
glad  spring  world  was  past  budding — was  in  flower. 

She  was  like What  was  she  like?  For  a  mo- 
ment he  suspected  that  he  was  going  to  quote  poetry, 


92  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

after  all.  Little  fragmentary  phrases  came  swarming 
out  of  his  memory,  subconscious  salvage  from  reading 
he  had  considered  a  bore  in  college  days,  things  about 
eyes  and  stars  and  faces  and  flowers  and  foolish  stuff 
like  that.  The  poets  weren't  such  a  rotten  lot;  they 
knew  a  thing  or  two.  Even  her  back,  as  she  went 

away  down  the  street,  had  a  look Well,  there 

was  something  about  Artemis,  or  maybe  it  was 
Atalanta.  Anyway  it  was  some  young  heathen,  and 
she  was  a  corker  when  it  came  to  getting  over  the 
ground. 

"By  Jove!"  he  gasped,  with  a  hasty  look  at  his 
watch,  "I'm  ten  minutes  late  for  my  engagement 
now.  See  you  at  the  club  at  two,  old  man." 

He  was  off,  down  the  street,  on  the  old  spring  trail. 

Kennedy  Coles  looked  after  him  with  a  grin.  He 
was  not  so  crusty  that  he  did  not  know  a  pretty  girl 
when  he  saw  one,  or  had  not  noticed  the  ways  of  men 
and  maids. 

" Young  idiot,"  he  said  laughingly;  but  there  was 
affection  in  his  voice.  He  was  fond  of  the  young 
idiot.  People  usually  were  fond  of  Teddy  Burton. 

The  Girl  walked  rapidly.  She  was  slender  and 
straight,  and  not  too  tall. 

"Just  about  up  to  my  ears,"  Teddy  reflected  with 
satisfaction.  That  was  a  cosy  height.  Only  a  little 
droop  of  the  girl's  head  and  there  you  were!  It 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  93 

occurred  to  him,  however,  that  this  girl's  head  did  not 
look  as  though  it  would  droop  readily.  It  was  too 
proudly  poised.  Well,  who  wanted  a  girl's  head  to 
droop  whenever  it  came  near  a  shoulder?  He  liked 
them  proud,  himself,  chin  up  and  a  neck  that 
didn't  poke  forward  from  between  the  shoulders. 
Probably  that  was  what  the  poets  meant  by  a  throat 
like  a  tower  of  ivory.  Maybe  it  wasn't  the  poets. 
Perhaps  it  was  Solomon  or  David.  Any  way  some  of 
those  knowing  old  geezers  had  put  it  that  way.  The 
girl's  back  was  wonderful,  but  her  face!  He  wished 
he  were  coming  toward  her  instead  of  following  her. 
No,  if  he  were  coming  toward  her  he'd  soon  have 
passed  her.  As  things  were,  he  could  at  least  keep 
within  sight  of  her. 

But  he  could  not.  She  suddenly  turned  in  at  an 
apartment-house  door.  A  loose-jointed,  sandy- 
haired  Irishman,  who  was  sunning  himself  in  the 
doorway,  stepped  aside  and  jerked  off  his  cap.  She 
stopped  to  speak  to  him,  smiled  at  him — lucky  dog! 
Her  profile  was  more  wonderful  than  her  back. 

Just  before  the  gloomy  hall  swallowed  her  she 
turned  to  say  something  more  to  the  man  in  the 
doorway. 

Her  full  face!  Really  the  English  language  was 
a  poor  anaemic  affair.  There  was  not  an  adjective  in  it 
that  could  do  justice  to  her  full  face. 


94  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

The  sandy-haired  man  followed  the  Girl  into  the 
darkness.  The  doorway  yawned  emptily.  The  tall, 
ugly,  brownstone  building  looked  very  much  like  any 
other  apartment  house  of  the  mid-Victorian  period. 
Teddy  marvelled  at  its  reticence.  He  had  passed  it 
the  day  before  and  felt  no  thrill,  no  presentment. 
How  was  one  to  suspect  that  a  sullen  brownstone 
front  and  two  particularly  painful  caryatids  sheltered 
a  girl  like  that?  Any  apartment  house  in  which  she 
made  her  home  should  have  forgotten  its  gloomy 
past,  should  have  broken  out  into  buff  brick  and  white 
stone  and  window  boxes  and  carvings  of  fruit  and 
flowers — should  have  been  cheerful  from  basement 
to  roof — but  no  apartment  house  could  be  a  fit  shrine 
for  Her.  His  fancy  installed  her  in  a  big  country 
house — a  white  country  house  among  lawns  and  gar- 
dens and  trees.  Sunshine  everywhere  and  colour 
and  the  blue  of  water  and  the  blue  of  hills  and  the 
Girl  in  a  white  frock. 

The  sandy-haired  man  reappeared  in  the  doorway 
and  looked  curiously  at  the  stranger  who  stood  ap- 
parently rapt  in  admiration  of  the  brownstone  f agade. 

"Were  ye  huntin'  for  somebuddy?"  he  asked. 

Teddy  came  back  from  a  garden  overlooking  the 
sea. 

"N-no,"  he  stammered.  "I've  found  somebody, 
thank  you." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  95 

Dennis  Flavin  watched  him  as  he  went  away  down 
the  street. 

"He's  a  good-lukkin'  lad,"  he  said  to  the  hall  boy 
Who  had  joined  him,  "but  I  misdoubt  he  has  too 
many  in  the  early  marnin'.  'Tis  a  bad  system  that, 
Fred.  Ye  should  work  up  aisy  to  the  evenin',  if  ye 
drink  at  all.  Ye'll  be  the  betther  for  lavin'  the  stuff 
alone,  me  boy,  and  the  surer  av  kapin'  yer  job — and, 
by  the  same  token,  I'm  moinded  av  an  errand  I  havt 
on  Sixt'  Av'noo.  Ye  can  tell  anybuddy  that  asks  fer 
me  I'll  be  back  in  the  wink  av  an  eye." 

He  went  his  thirsty  way  and  the  hall  boy  dozed 
on  the  elevator  seat,  and,  up  in  the  Bonner  apartment 
Jean  Mackaye  busied  herself  about  her  morning 
work.  Nobody  had  been  jarred  out  of  the  usual 
routine  except  Edward  Burton,  Jr.;  but  that  young 
man,  abandoning  all  prearranged  plans,  swung 
aboard  a  Fifth  Avenue  'bus  and  rode  up  to  Central 
Park.  There,  through  the  long  morning  hours,  while 
angry  friends  telephoned  vainly  to  all  his  accustomed 
haunts,  he  sat  on  a  sunny  bench  with  spring  yearning 
round  about  him,  and  wondered  who  She  was. 

The  next  morning,  when  Icho,  Kennedy  Coles's 
houseman,  climbed  to  the  parlour  floor  in  the  progress 
of  his  early  morning  work,  he  was  surprised  to  find  his 
master's  guest  up,  dressed,  and  seated  in  the  big  bay 
window  of  the  library  from  which  could  be  enjoyed 


96  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

an  uninterrupted  view  both  up  and  down  the  street. 
The  hour  was  seven-thirty,  and  early  rising  had  never 
been  this  guesi's  specialty.  Icho  took  the  problem  to 
Tokichi,  the  cook,  who  was  older  and  more  used  to 
American  ways. 

"He  has,  maybe  so,  lost  much  money  at  poker," 
said  Tokichi  sagely.  Then,  happening  to  be  standing 
by  an  open  window,  he  sniffed  the  spring  air  and  had  a 
vision  of  iris  fields  and  cherry  bloom.  "  Or,  maybe  so, 
he  has  seen  dam  fine  girl,"  he  added,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  prepared  a  grape-fruit  for  the  early  riser.  America, 
Japan — the  country  made  little  difference  when  a 
young  man  met  a  "dam  fine  girl"  in  the  springtime. 

Teddy  had  not  slept  well.  In  the  first  place, 
he  had  gone  to  bed  late  after  an  evening's  celebration 
of  his  return  to  town.  Then,  just  as  he  was  lapsing 
into  drowsiness,  a  horrible  thought  had  leaped  at  him 
out  of  the  dark. 

What  if  she  were  married! 

That  had  kept  him  awake  for  a  long  while;  but  in 
the  end  he  persuaded  himself  that  the  thing  was  un- 
thinkable, impossible.  Fate  could  not  play  him  so 
scurvy  a  trick. 

For  the  second  time  he  had  dozed;  but,  just  beside 
the  gates  of  the  Castle  of  Sleep,  another  good  idea 
assailed  him. 

He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  lived  in  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  97 

apartment.  Perhaps  she  didn't.  She  might  have 
been  calling  on  a  friend.  She  might  have  gone  away 
later  in  the  morning,  while  he  was  mooning  in  the 
Park.  He  sat  up  in  bed  to  wrestle  with  the  waking 
nightmare.  Why  hadn't  he  stayed  at  home  and 
watched  the  apartment  house?  How  could  he  find 
her  if  she  had  gone?  Drivelling,  chuckle-headed  ass 
that  he  was.  He  had  lost  her! 

Sudden  recollection  of  a  red-headed  Irishman's 
doffed  cap  and  the  Girl's  smiling  greeting  pulled  him 
out  of  the  Slough  of  Despond.  The  Irishman  looked 
like  a  janitor,  and  janitors  were  open  to  diplomatic 
overtures.  If  the  man  did  not  know  where  she  lived, 
he  could  probably  find  out.  But  how  to  meet  her? 

Of  course  he  might  happen  to  know  some  one  who 
knew  her,  but  that  was  a  chance  shot;  and  if  he  did 
not  know  any  friend  of  hers,  what  could  he  do,  short 
of  having  a  fit  at  her  feet  or  wrecking  his  car  as  she 
passed  by?  Even  in  case  of  such  a  casualty,  she 
would  probably  call  a  policeman  and  go  her  way. 

He  might  rent  an  apartment  in  the  building;  but 
she  wasn't  the  sort  of  a  girl  a  fellow  could  speak  to 
in  the  elevator.  She'd  have  gone  away  for  the  sum- 
mer long  before  he  would  dare  make  a  break  like  that. 

For  hours  he  lay  puzzling  over  the  problem,  invent- 
ing imaginary  meetings  in  which  he  played  heroic 
roles,  while  the  Girl  turned  to  him  and  clung.  He  had 


98  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

just  pulled  her  from  under  a  touring  car  at  Forty- 
second  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  and  was  himself  lying 
crushed  and  bleeding  on  the  pavement  when  sleep 
overtook  him  and  saved  an  already-overburdened 
traffic  policeman  from  maddening  complications. 

Why,  after  all  this,  he  wakened  two  hours  earlier 
than  usual,  let  the  love-smitten  tell.  Waken  he  did, 
and  instead  of  yawning  and  turning  over  luxuriously 
for  another  nap  as  was  his  habit,  he  sprang  from  bed 
the  moment  his  eyes  opened,  and  rushed  his  bath  and 
toilet  as  though  important  business  were  waiting. 
Important  business  was  waiting.  The  Girl  might  be 
taking  an  early  train,  might  make  a  practice  of  early 
morning  walks,  might  throw  open  a  front  window  and 
lean  out  into  the  sunshine.  With  the  daylight,  con- 
fidence in  his  luck  had  returned.  He  felt  sure  that  she 
was  hidden  away  behind  the  ugly  brownstone  wall — 
sure  that  somewhere,  somehow,  he  and  she  would 
come  together.  Cupid  would  never  knock  a  fellow  all 
in  a  heap  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

But  he  must  not  lose  any  tricks.  Luck  was  one 
thing  and  good  management  was  another.  So  he  sat 
in  the  bay  window  and  watched  the  caryatides  until 
his  own  neck  and  shoulders  ached  in  sympathy  with 
theirs. 

When  Icho  announced  breakfast,  t,he  guest  upset 
tradition  again  by  asking  to  have  his  coffee  brought  to 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  99 

him  where  he  was.  No,  he  didn't  care  for  a  grape- 
Truit  or  for  eggs.  Only  the  coffee,  served  right  there. 
His  host,  strolling  downstairs  at  nine  o'clock,  found 
him  ostensibly  reading  a  morning  paper,  but  keeping 
a  watchful  eye  on  the  apartment-house  door. 

"Had  your  breakfast?"  Coles  asked  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  old  man.  Felt  a  bit  headachey.  Thought 
some  coffee  would  fix  me  up.  You  see  I've  an  im- 
portant engagement." 

"Another?"  Coles's  face  was  profoundly  serious 
but  his  guest  reddened  guiltily  and  retired  into  the 
folds  of  his  newspaper. 

Five  minutes  later  he  sprang  from  his  chair,  rushed 
into  the  hall,  grabbed  his  hat,  and  slammed  the  frorir 
door  behind  him. 

He  was  standing  on  the  steps  as  she  passed.  She 
was  even  lovelier  than  he  had  thought.  Her  lips 
curled  up  at  the  corners  and  her  brown  eyes  smiled 
out  at  the  world  from  under  their  long  lashes.  She 
was  young  and  glad.  The  spring  was  in  her  blood  and 
she  went  lilting  by  like  a  gay  tune  set  to  joyous  words. 

Teddy  followed  her  down  the  street  to  Sixth 
Avenue  and  along  the  Avenue  southward.  Overhead 
the  L  trains  rattled  and  roared;  on  the  street,  clatter- 
ing, clanging,  trolley  cars  ground  shrieks  from  the 
helpless  rails — trucks  and  market  wagons  wound 
heavily  in  and  out  among  L  pillars  and  street  cars  and 


100  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

hurrying  crowds;  stale  smells  came  stealing  out  from 
dark  shops  to  defile  the  soft,  warm  air,  and  soot 
floated  grimly  down  the  sunbeam  slopes;  across  the 
street  a  police  wagon  dumped  a  load  of  drunks  and 
disorderlies  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  steps  of 
Jefferson  police  court;  man-made  horrors  blurred  the 
smile  of  spring,  but  Teddy  Burton  found  lower  Sixth 
Avenue  a  primrose  path. 

When  the  Girl  stopped  at  a  market,  the  doubts  of 
the  night  once  more  elbowed  their  way  into  his  sun- 
shine. 

If  she  were  married ! — but  she  wasn't  married.  She 
couldn't  be  married.  She  didn't  look  married.  Just 
because  a  girl  bought  beefsteak  and  escarole,  she 
wasn't  necessarily  married.  Probably  she  did  the 
marketing  for  her  mother  or  for  a  sick  friend — but  it 
wasn't  necessary  to  be  so  nice  to  a  red-headed  little 
market  man.  What  was  the  use  of  smiling  like  that 
at  a  market  man  when  there  were  men  who  would 
give — but  of  course  market  men  must  be  propitiated. 
Nobody  liked  tough  steak.  Teddy  didn't  himself, 
and  he  always  tried  to  be  reasonable;  he  prided  him- 
self upon  it.  Still  he  was  glad  when  she  had  finished 
her  marketing.  He  did  not  follow  her  home.  Being  a 
gentleman  was  a  habit  with  him.  Being  a  lover  was 
only  an  obsession. 

So  he  stood  in  the  cigar-store  door  and  watched  her  go 


HOW  COULD  YOU;  JKAN?  101 

up  the  Avenue  and  turned  into  Twelfth  Street  before 
he,  too,  strolled  that  way.  When  he  reached  the  Twelfth 
Street  corner  she  was  just  disappearing  through  the 
door  of  the  apartment  house,  but  his  heart  was  light. 
She  lived  there — or  at  least  she  was  staying  there — 
and  she  probably  went  to  market  every  morning. 
Perhaps  she  went  somewhere  in  the  afternoons,  too. 
It  was  something  to  see  her  even  if  he  did  not  know 
her,  and  the  janitor  was  Irish.  One  could  always  get 
on  with  the  Irish. 

She  did  not  go  out  that  afternoon.  Teddy  was 
disappointed;  but  sitting  in  a  sunny  bay  window, 
watching  the  house  where  the  Only  Girl  lives  and 
thinking  long  thoughts,  was  not  such  a  bad  way  of 
spending  a  spring  afternoon. 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  market — in  a  dif- 
ferent hat,  a  distractingly  becoming  hat  with  a  white 
wing  tilting  it  to  leeward.  Teddy  did  not  follow  her 
this  time.  He  only  stood  on  the  steps  and  watched 
her  go  by,  then  waited  for  her  to  come  home.  Her 
hair  waved  up  from  the  nape  of  her  neck.  So  few  girls 
had  back  hair  like  that.  Usually  it  was  stringy. 

On  the  third  day  she  did  not  go  to  market.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  decided  to  use  the  cold  steak  for 
hash  and  there  were  salad  and  string  beans  in  the 
house;  so  she  telephoned  to  the  blond  Mr.  Parsons 
for  some  onions  and  turned  her  attention  to  silver 


102  HO\\    COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

cleaning.  But  the  young  man  on  Kennedy  Coles's 
front  steps  could  not  know  all  these  unromantic 
facts.  He  only  knew  that  spring  was  a  fake  and  that, 
in  spite  of  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky,  the  sun  refused 
to  shine. 

Something  had  happened.  The  Girl  was  ill — or 
perhaps  she  had  gone  away  in  the  night.  He  waited 
until  one  o'clock,  did  scant  justice  to  Tokichi's  ex- 
cellent luncheon,  and  then  began  walking  around  the 
block.  It  was  impossible  to  sit  still  any  longer  yet  he 
could  not  go  far  away. 

On  the  third  lap  he  passed  Mr.  Flavin,  tacking  care- 
fully home  from  one  of  his  frequent  excursions  to 
Sixth  Avenue.  Teddy  did  not  recognize  the  back, 
but  the  profile  prodded  his  memory  and,  turning,  hf 
saw  the  genial  rubicund  face  with  its  thatch  of 
carroty  hair.  The  Irishman  was  smiling.  An  aura  of 
satisfaction  and  good  will  toward  men  folded  him 
round.  The  moment  was  auspicious  and,  recognizing 
the  fact,  Teddy  stopped  and  waited  for  the  man. 

Mr.  Flavin  remembered  him.  "Huntin'  agin,  is 
it?"  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"Well — in  a  way,"  the  young  man  admitted. 
"Fact  is,  I'm  hunting  for  information  and  I  rather 
think  you  can  give  it  to  me." 

Mr.  Flavin  swelled  his  chest  and  leaned  against  a 
neighbour's  iron  fence — not  that  he  actually  needed 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  103 

the  support,  but  because  he  felt  that  he  could  give  his 
entire  attention  to  the  subject  in  hand  if  he  did  not 
have  to  devote  any  of  it  to  dominating  his  legs. 

"I'm  the  grrand  one  for  that  same,"  he  said  en- 
couragingly. "  There's  no  man  knows  the  neighbourr- 
hud  betther.  And  what  sort  of  information  would 
it  be  now?" 

Teddy  hesitated,  cleared  his  throat.  A  wave  of 
crimson  spread  from  his  collar  to  his  hair. 

"And  is  it  so?"  Mr.  Flavin's  tone  was  indulgent. 
However  unreliable  his  legs  might  be,  his  eyes  and  his 
wits  were  still  working.  "Now  what  would  she  be 
loike?"  he  prompted. 

Teddy  made  the  plunge.  He  did  not  like  finding 
out  about  Her  in  this  way,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no 
other. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  a  young  lady  who 
lives  in  your  house,"  he  said.  His  gravity  approached 
solemnity,  and  Mr.  Flavin's  face  became  correspond-' 
ingly  serious,  though  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"There's  some  eight  or  nine  av  thim  about  the 
place." 

Teddy's  heart  protested.       There  was  only  One. 

"She  has  brown  eyes  and  hair,"  he  explained. 

It  was  horribly  inadequate  but  if  he  tried  to 
describe  how  she  really  looked  to  him,  the  man  would 
think  him  mad. 


104  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Some  do,"  assented  Mr.  Flavin. 

"And  pink  cheeks,"  supplemented  Teddy. 

"It's  a  way  with  the  young  things." 

"She's— well,  she's  quite  different." 

Mr.  Flavin  laughed. 

"Ye've  no  flow  av  language  atall,  atall.  It's 
aisy  seein'  ye're  not  Irish,  man.  Now  if  ye're 
manin'  a  colleen  wid  the  two  eyes  av  her  like  run- 
ninl  wather  with  the  sun  on  it,  and  lips  as  red  as 
rowan  berries,  and  a  smile  that'd  coax  a  mavis  off  the 
branch,  and  a  way  wid  her  altogither  that  makes  a 
man  think  the  sun's  shining  whin  she  does  go  by, 
and  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  are  drownded  entirely 
whin  she's  out  av  his  sight;  if  ye're  manin'  her 

"That's  her!"  Teddy's  grammar  was  weak,  but 
his  conviction  was  strong. 

Mr.  Flavin  leaned  more  comfortably  against  the 
iron  fence. 

*  'Tis  a  great  thing  to  have  the  gift  av  spache,  me 
boy;  an'  'tis  the  Irish  that  make  the  fine  lovers. 
As  for  husbands,  that's  as  may  be." 

"But  the  Girl?"  urged  Teddy. 

"Well,  now,  the  gurrl's  name  is  Scotch.  'Tis  her 
only  fault.  Her  name's  Jean  Mackaye,  and  she's 
maid  to  thim  daft  Bonners  on  the  eighth  floor." 

For  a  moment  the  world  reeled  round  Edward 
Burton,  Jr.  He  put  out  a  groping  hand  to  steady  it 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  105 

and  found  the  iron  fence.  It  was  good  to  hold  fast  to 
something  that  seemed  stationary. 

From  some  remote  place  Mr.  Flavin's  voice 
drifted  to  him. 

"She's  the  wonder  av  the  wurrld  fer  wurrk,  is  that 
gurrl.  Not  a  speck  av  durrt  will  she  have  on  the 
primises.  'Tis  not  healthy  to  be  so  clane,  I  do  think. 
And  she  cooks  that  fine,  the  little  ould  lady  and 
gintleman  are  plumpin'  up  like  partridges.  She's 
cook  and  nurrse  and  guardeen  and  hiven  knows  what 
ilse  to  thim  two.  They  had  the  grrand  luck  vrhin 
they  got  her." 

\  Teddy  relinquished  his  grip  of  the  fence,  squared  his 
shoulders,  pulled  himself  together.  What  a  fool  he 
was !  Of  course  the  man  wasn't  talking  about  the  Girl. 

"That's  not  the  young  lady  I  mean,"  he  said. 
"The  one  I'm  talking  about  wears  a  dark  blue  suit 
and  a  hat  with  a  white  wing." 

"'Tis  the  same,"  declared  Mr.  Flavin.  "Man, 
there's  no  two  av  thim  like  that  in  one  house  or  in  a 
hundred  houses  for  that  matther.  Ye  cud  take  her 
fer  the  daughter  av  the  Prisident,  and  she  just  a 
wurrking-out  gurrl.  Bridget,  me  wife,  says  she'd 
look  grrand  on  a  throne,  that  gurrl — and  it's  the 
Lord's  truth.  If  ye  can  trust  the  pictures  in  the 
paper,  she'd  make  the  other  quanes  look  like  two 
shpots,  the  whole  bunch  av  thim." 


106  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

" Does  she  go  to  market  in  the  mornings? "  Teddy 
was  clinging  desperately  to  straws  of  hope. 

"She  does  that,  but  she  didn't  go  this  marnin'.  I 
was  up  to  fix  the  drain  in  the  ice  box  and  it's  hash 
she'll  be  havin'  for  dinner  the-day  she  said,  so  there 
was  no  need  av  goin'  out  and  wastin'  time.  There's 
nothin'  wasted  in  that  flat — not  aven  the  maid's 
time.  She'd  make  a  grrand  wife  for  some  poor  man, 
that  gurrl." 

The  eagerness  had  all  died  out  of  Teddy  Burton's 
face.  He  looked  white  and  hurt  and  bewildered;  but 
he  managed  a  rather  sickly  smile  as  he  pressed  a  dol- 
lar bill  into  Mr.  Flavin's  willing  hand. 

"Thanks  awfully,"  he  said.  "Of  course  you  won't 
mention  my  inquiring." 

"Divil  a  wurrd.  I  was  a  great  lad  for  the  gurrls 
mesilf." 

Teddy  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  away. 

Icho  opened  the  door  for  him. 

"Honourable  Sir  wants  something?"  the  little  man 
asked  solicitously,  after  one  look  at  the  Honourable 
Sir's  unhappy  face. 

"Wants  to  be  let  alone,"  Teddy  answered  un- 
graciously as  he  shot  toward  the  stairs. 

Arrived  in  his  own  room,  he  bolted  the  door, 
dropped  into  a  chair,  and  tried  to  look  the  truth  in 
the  face  unflinchingly. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  ,         107 

A  servant  girl ! 

All  the  traditions  and  prejudices  of  his  class 
quivered  under  the  blow.  It  had  never  even  occurred 
to  him  that  she  did  not  belong  in  his  own  little  world. 
He  had  not  given  a  thought  to  money,  had  not  cared 
whether  she  was  rich  or  poor;  but  birth  and  breeding 
— he  had  taken  these  as  a  matter  of  course.  She 
looked  so  unmistakably  a  gentlewoman,  thorough- 
bred every  inch  of  her.  He  had  gloried  in  that  look  of 
hers.  The  Burton  women  had  always  been  like  that 
—not  beautiful  like  the  Girl,  but  with  an  air.  He 
could  remember  his  own  mother  though  she  had  been 
dead  so  long — a  frail,  blonde  woman  with  the  sweetest 
eyes  in  the  world  and  the  proudest  mouth.  And  his 
grandmother — she  had  been  a  Carter  of  Virginia  and 
never  had  allowed  any  one  to  forget  it.  Ugly  little 
woman  but  grande  dame  always.  There  were  five 
generations  of  that  sort  of  thing  behind  him.  That 
was  a  long  record  for  America  and  before  that — back 
in  England — well,  the  family  tree  branched  out 
most  imposingly  in  England.  A  snob  was  a  loath- 
some beast  but  there  was  something  about  family. 
He  had  always  been  brought  up  to  feel  that  he  owed 
a  good  deal  to  his;  and  if  he  had  not,  so  far,  added  to 
its  glory,  he  had,  at  least,  been  negatively  loyal.  He 
had  come  through  college  with  no  honours,  but  with- 
out any  dishonours  and  that  was  fairly  good  for  a 


108  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

millionaire's  son.  Perhaps  being  the  most  popular 
man  in  his  class  and  making  the  football  team  had 
even  been  honours. 

Since  college  he  had  played  around  and  spent  a 
good  deal  of  money;  but  he  hadn't  done  anything 
very  bad.  The  old  gentleman  had  told  him  to  take 
two  years  and  get  the  foolishness  out  of  his  system, 
and  he  had  been  doing  it.  There  might  be  a  bit  of 
foolishness  left,  here  and  there  in  a  corner;  but,  on  the 
whole,  he  was  about  ready  to  settle  down  to  business. 
He  had  always  intended  to  go  home  to  Buffalo, 
tackle  a  job  in  the  factory,  marry  the  right  girl,  and 
be  a  credit  to  the  Burtons. 

"The  right  girl!" 

A  glad  young  face  smiled  at  him  from  under  a 
white-winged  hat  set  saucily  atilt,  and  his  heart 
leaped  for  joy  in  the  vision,  but  fell  back,  a  leaden 
weight. 

The  right  girl  was  the  wrong  girl. 

He  had  found  her.  Even  now  he  had  no  doubt  of 
that.  Servant  or  princess,  there  was  the  one  girl  in 
the  world  for  him. 

But  if  he  should  say  to  his  father: 

"I'm  going  to  marry  a  girl  who  is  a  servant  in  a 

flat  down  on  Twelfth  Street "  Imagination  failed 

him.  It  was  not  that  he  was  afraid  of  his  father,  It 
was  that  he  thought  such  a  lot  of  him.  It  would  be 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  109 

beastly  rough  on  the  old  gentleman  to  have  all  his 
plans  and  hopes  and  ambitions  knocked  from  under 
him  like  that.  He'd  been  such  a  corking  good  sort, 

and  when  a  chap  was  an  only  son Perhaps  if  he 

could  just  see  the  Girl No.  Dad  was  broad 

minded  but  he'd  always  been  down  on  a  fellow's 
marrying  out  of  his  own  class,  or  a  girl's  doing  it 
either.  Teddy  had  agreed  with  him  about  that.  A. 
man  and  his  wife  ought  to  have  the  same  background, 
same  traditions,  same  point  of  view,  same  tastes. 
Even  at  that,  marriage  was  a  long  shot.  One  ought 
to  play  for  safety.  Then  there  was  the  other  family — 
the  girl's  family.  She  might  be  lovely  enough  and 
adaptable  enough  to  fit  in  after  a  while,  but  if  her 
family  was  impossible?  Thanksgivings!  Christ- 
mases!  Grandfathers  and  grandmothers  and  uncles 
and  aunts  for  a  fellow's  children! 

Oh,  hell! 

He  sprang  from  his  chair,  jammed  his  hat  on  his 
head,  and  went  out  into  the  late  afternoon  sunshine. 
His  problem  was  too  big  for  four  walls. 

Fifth  Avenue,  even  between  Twelfth  Street  and 
Twenty-sixth  Street  was  spring  kissed.  A  strayed 
flower  seller  at  the  corner  of  Fourteenth  Street 
offered  his  tray  of  daffodils,  fresh  enough  still  to  make 
the  whole  neighbourhood  seem  aglow.  A  little 
Jewish  factory  girl,  scurrying  out  of  one  of  the  tall 


110  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

i 

buildings,  had  a  bunch  of  arbutus  pinned  to  her  coat 
collar.  The  driver  of  an  express  wagon,  lolling  on  his 
seat  before  the  office,  wore  a  red  rose  in  his  button- 
hole. But  the  tall  young  man  who  went  striding  up 
the  street  with  his  soft  hat  pulled  low  over  a  scowlir 
face  noticed  none  of  these  things — was  hopelessly 
out  of  tune  with  a  world  that  smiled. 

Farther  up  town  the  sidewalks  were  crowded  from 
shop  door  to  curb,  solid  battalions  of  motor  cars 
filled  the  streets.  Not  one  flower  seller  here  but 
dozens  of  them,  pushing  their  way  through  the 
crowd,  thrusting  masses  of  violets,  roses,  arbutus, 
daffodils,  narcissi  under  the  eyes  of  the  passer-by, 
leaving  trails  of  fragrance  behind  them.  Florists* 
windows  shouted  of  spring.  Jewellers'  windows  were 
Arabian  Nights'  dreams,  gay  finery  flaunted  in  the 
windows  of  the  shops  that  catered  to  fashion's  whims. 

Everywhere  colour  and  light  and  luxury  and  laugh- 
ter. Everywhere  women's  faces,  young  and  old, 
pretty  and  homely,  but  all  with  smiles  on  their  lips 
and  lights  in  their  eyes. 

Teddy  had  always  loved  Fifth  Avenue  on  a  spring 
afternoon,  but  now  he  went  ploughing  his  way  along 
it,  blind  and  deaf  to  its  lure. 

Women's  faces?  There  was  only  one  woman's  face, 
and  it  belonged  to  a  girl  who  was  cooking  another 
woman's  dinner  in  a  kitchen  on  Twelfth  Street. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  Ill 

The  sun  was  setting  when  he  reached  the  upper  end 
of  the  Park,  but  he  went  on,  through  the  soft  twilight 
and  the  clinging  dusk,  into  the  starlit  spring  night. 
\yhen  he  found  himself  in  a  little  park  far  up  on  the 
\  ?nk  of  the  Hudson  he  knew  that  he  had,  uncon- 
sciously, been  heading  for  there  ever  since  leaving 
home. 

jy  He  had  discovered  the  place  years  before  and  had 
*dways  remembered  it  as  curiously  out  of  the  life 
current  eddying  round  about  it.  Now  it  was  as 
lonely  as  his  memory  of  it,  and  he  dropped  down  on  a 
bench  with  a  sudden  realization  that  he  was  tired. 

Far  below  he  could  see  the  river,  dark  but  liquidly 
mirroring  the  stars.  Beyond,  an  irregular  line  of 
darkness — less  black,  and  jewel-set  here  and  there 
with  clustering  lights — marked  the  Jersey  shore. 
Above  was  the  wide  starry  sky — dark,  too,  but  with  an 
infinite  capacity  for  light. 

The  noises  of  the  city  had  died  away  to  a  murmur, 
rising  and  falling  on  a  night  wind  that  was  chill, 
though  it  had  moments  of  relenting — was  warmed, 
now  and  then,  by  odd,  sudden  little  breaths  from  the 
lips  of  spring. 

The  man  on  the  bench  turned  his  coat  collar  up 
about  his  throat,  rammed  his  hands  down  into  his 
pockets,  and  stared  at  the  river. 

He  had  come  to  this  quiet  place  to  think  things 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

out;  but,  now  that  he  was  there,  his  thoughts  did  not 
seem  as  important  as  they  had  seemed  in  his  room 
down  on  Twelfth  Street.  He  did  not  feel  so  im- 
portant himself. 

His  eyes  wandered  from  the  stars  that  quivered  in 
the  river  to  the  stars  that  glowed  serenely  in  the  sky 
above.  Funny  thing  how  many  stars  there  were.  He 
had  never  realized  it  before,  had  never  thought  much 
about  the  stars.  They  didn't  jump  out  at  a  fellow  the 
way  the  moon  did.  One  took  them  for  granted;  but, 
seen  from  a  hilltop,  on  a  night  of  spring,  they  made  a 
chap  feel — he  couldn't  quite  tell  how  they  did  make  a 
chap  feel,  only  they  took  the  fever  out  of  him.  A  man 
could  make  all  sorts  of  a  fool  of  himself  under  the 
moon,  but  if  he  once  let  the  stars  get  at  him,  he  was  as 
likely  as  not  to  go  down  on  his  marrow  bones  and 
pray. 

That  was  it!  That  was  the  way  the  stars  made  a 
chap  feel — like  praying.  No  wonder  he  couldn't  rec- 
ognize the  feeling  right  at  first.  They  were  so  far 
away  and  quiet  and  steadfast.  Who  was  the  blamed 
fool  that  started  the  "twinkle,  twinkle"  business 
about  the  stars?  Nice  sort  of  a  brain  he  must  have 
had.  Anybody  who'd  make  the  stars  twinkle,  would 
call  Mt.  Blanc  "nice." 

Worlds,  all  of  them!  Worlds  swinging  along 
through  space,  to  some  tune  of  their  own,  since  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  113 

beginning  of  time — and  here  was  a  silly  ass  of  an 
atom  on  one  ha'penny  world  raving  about  grand- 
fathers ! 

Suddenly  he  pushed  his  hat  back  on  his  head  and 
laughed. 

Five  generations  of  Burtons!    Good  Lord! 

The  Burtons  weren't  so  important  after  all,  if  you 
put  it  to  the  stars. 

Who  wanted  to  marry  a  girl's  grandmother?  And 
who  cared  a  tinker's  damn  whether  a  girl  worked  in  a 
kitchen  or  loafed  in  a  drawing-room,  so  long  as  she 
was  the  Girl  of  Girls?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  odds 
ought  to  be  in  favour  of  the  cook.  Any  fool  could  loaf. 

When  it  came  down  to  star  values,  what  had  he, 
Edward  Burton,  Jr.,  to  offer  to  a  girl?  Family— 
piffle!  Money — rot! 

The  Girl  could  cook.  What  could  Tie  do?  She  had 
been  making  her  own  way  in  the  world,  making  an 
honest  living,  fighting,  with  her  chin  up  and  a  smile  in 
her  eyes,  while  he  had  been  pottering  around  on 
yachts  and  polo  ponies,  spending  the  money  his 
father  had  been  man  enough  to  make. 

Servant?  Well,  what  was  life  for  but  for  service? 
Jolly  lot  of  serving  he'd  ever  done!  He  wasn't  fit  to 
live  on  the  same  street  with  the  Girl.  He  wasn't  fit 
to  live  on  the  same  earth  with  her. 

Here  he'd  been  wondering  whether  he  could  con- 


114  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

descend  to  marry  a  servant.  It  hadn't  occurred  to 
him  that  she  might  insist  upon  marrying  a  Man. 

Marry  him?  Why,  she  probably  wouldn't  even  let 
him  black  her  kitchen  stove  for  her. 

Alone,  under  the  stars,  Teddy  Burton  humbled 
himself — and  prayed,  after  a  fashion,  though  he  did 
not  know  that  he  was  praying.  Honest  humility 
and  a  desperate  longing  to  be  worthy  of  great  happi- 
ness come  very  close  to  prayer. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  a  tired  but  cheerful 
young  man  opened  the  door  of  Kennedy  Coles's 
house  and  turned  to  look  up  at  the  sky.  Only  a 
narrow  river  of  blue-black  showed  between  the  house- 
tops; but  there  were  stars  in  it. 

"Right  you  are,  boys!"  the  young  man  said 
irreverently.  "The  Burton  family  isn't  such  a 
much!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  decision  made  under  the  stars  was  all  very  well 
in  its  way,  and  its  way  was  a  good  one;  but  when 
Teddy  Burton  wakened  the  next  morning,  per- 
plexity and  doubt  once  more  claimed  him  for  their 
own.  One  hurdle  was  taken.  Looking  back,  he 
wondered  that  he  had  ever  for  a  moment  balked  at 
it.  He  hated  to  worry  his  father,  but  a  man  could 
not  marry  simply  to  please  his  father,  and  as  soon  as 
Edward  Burton,  Sr.,  recovered  from  the  first  shock, 

as  soon  as  he  saw  Jean Oh,  it  would  be  too  easy. 

There  wasn't  a  man  living  who  could  resist  her. 

As  for  her  doing  housework,  that  ought  to  count 
one  for  her.  Why  on  earth  there  should  be  a  prejudice 
against  domestic  service  he  couldn't  understand.  If  a 
girl  had  to  earn  her  living,  the  natural  thing  was  for 
her  to  turn  to  woman's  work.  A  nice  girl  was  a  lot 
better  off  in  a  home  than  in  a  shop,  or  a  factory  or  an 
office. 

If  for  the  smallest  fraction  of  a  moment  he  felt  a 
misgiving,  he  shook  it  off.  Suppose  she  shouldn't 
match  her  face;  suppose  she  should  be  illiterate,  com- 

115 


116  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

mon.  He  laughed;  the  thing  simply  wasn't  possible. 
There  were  pretty  girls  without  brains  or  refinement 
or  morals.  He'd  met  a  lot  of  them,  and  some  of  the 
lot  were  in  his  own  class,  that  precious  superior  class 
he  had  been  doddering  around  about  the  day  before; 
but  you  could  always  tell  whether  when  you  got  by  a 
pretty  face  you  were  going  to  find  anybody  home. 
Now  Jean — [he  liked  that  name.  It  sounded  sensi- 
ble, characterful,  and  yet  it  was  such  a  cozy,  dear 
little  name] — well,  Jean  wasn't  pretty.  She  was 
beautiful — and  the  beauty  wasn't  just  a  matter  of 
complexion  and  colour  and  the  shape  of  her  chin  and 
her  nose  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It  was  the  soul 
of  her  that  made  the  difference  between  pretty  and 
beautiful.  A  girl  with  that  face  couldn't  help  being 
good  and  sweet  and  dear — oh,  unspeakably  dear. 
Dad  would  realize  that,  too.  He  was  an  under- 
standing sort  of  a  man,  Dad  was. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  adore  a  girl  and  quite  an- 
other thing  to  find  a  chance  to  tell  her  so.  How  in  the 
name  of  Cupid  was  he  to  meet  her,  to  know  her,  to 
persuade  her  that  he  wasn't  a  bad  risk — as  husbands 
go?  He  puzzled  over  the  problem  while  he  dressed, 
while  he  ate  his  breakfast,  but  then  forgot  it  in  the 
excitement  of  the  absorbing,  vital  question  of  the 
moment.  Would  she  go  to  market?  Wouldn't  she 
go  to  market?  Would  he  see  her  in  a  few  minutes  or 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  117 

would  he  be  obliged  to  drag  through  another  in- 
terminable day  without  a  glimpse  of  her? 

She  went  to  market. 

He  saw  the  white  wing  leave  the  darkness  of  the 
apartment-house  doorway.  Then  he  saw  her  face. 
It  came  nearer,  nearer;  was  beside  him;  passed  him; 
left  him  limp. 

Shades  of  departed  lovers,  what  a  girl!  He  must 
meet  her  now — at  once.  Waiting  was  out  of  the 
question.  And  in  his  impatient  fumbling  for  ways 
and  means  he  remembered  the  Irish  janitor.  A 
good-natured  fellow — and  every  Irishman  loved  a 
lover.  Yes;  the  janitor  was  his  one  best  bet.  Per- 
haps the  man  could  think  of  a  way,  do  something, 
suggest  something. 

"There's  a  man  wants  you,"  the  hall  boy  an- 
nounced to  Mr.  Flavin  an  hour  later. 

"What  sorrt  of  a  man?"  the  janitor  asked.  He 
was  not  owing  anything  to  speak  of  at  the  moment, 
but  he  had  the  habit  of  caution. 

"A  young  fellow  in  a  gray  suit  and  a  hurry." 

"Well,  now,  I  wonder "  mused  Mr.  Flavin, 

laying  aside  his  paper. 

"I  was  thinkin'  it  was  you,"  he  said  to  his  visitor 
a  moment  later.  "Wud  ye  come  in,  or  wud  ye  stay 
out,  or  wud  ye  walk  a  ways  with  me.  I've  an  irrand 
to  Sixt'  Av'noo." 


118  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

They  attended  to  the  errand  and  Teddy  laid  his 
case  frankly  before  the  deeply  sympathetic  Celt — 
frankly  but  with  reservations.  He  did  not  mention 
his  name  or  his  social  standing  or  his  father's  money. 
He  was  simply  a  young  man  up  to  the  ears  in  love  with 
a  girl  he  did  not  know.  What  could  Mr.  Flavin, 
with  proper  encouragement  and  compensation,  do 
about  it?" 

The  janitor  took  off  his  hat  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  red  hair. 

"Faith  an'  it's  not  mesilf  that  wud  blame  ye,  lad." 
His  voice  oozed  sympathy.  "She's  the  rose  av  the 
wurrld.  Did  ye  iver  see  my  Bridget?  She  was  rosy 
hersilf,  Bridget  was.  I  mind  me  there  was  a  path 
up  out  av  Bally  shannon,  along  the  sea — but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there  and  Bridget's  some  changed. 
Still  I  know.  Lad,  I  know.  Ain't  it  the  grrand, 
chokin',  hurrtful  feelin'?  Ye  wudn't  give  a  pint  av 
small  beer  half  drunk  up  fer  yersilf .  Ye  know  ye're 
a  sinful,  worthless  young  divil,  but  ye  feel  ye  have  it 
in  ye  to  change,  and  ye're  thinkin'  maybe  an  angel  'ud 
stoop  down  from  hivin  and  take  a  hand  at  improvin' 
ye,  because  'tis  angels  are  built  on  the  lovin'  and 
savin'  plan.  Oh,  well,  I  know — but  the  trouble's  here, 
mon.  Yer  angel's  the  kind  that  holds  her  head 
so  high  she  wudn't  be  afther  seem'  sinful  but  well- 
manin*  young  men  unless  they  was  called  to  her 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  119 

attintion  special.  She  has  no  eye  out  fer  the  lads. 
There's  been  no  call  fer  it.  'Tis  the  lads  that  have 
had  the  eyes." 

"  I  thought  maybe  you She  seemed  very  jolly 

and  friendly  with  you—  Teddy  was  incoherent 

but  hopeful. 

Mr.  Flavin  looked  at  him  pityingly. 

"I,  is  it?  Me  bhoy,  d'ye  think  I'd  dare  lead  a  lad 
av  my  acquaintance  up  to  her  and  introduce  him? 
'Tis  plain  ye  haven't  her  measure  atall,  atall. 
Frindly  with  me?  She  is  that;  but  do  I  call  her  by 
her  first  name  as  I  do  the  other  maids  in  the  house? 
Not  John  Flavin.  It's  'Miss  Mackaye'  to  her  if  ye 
plase,  and  yet  she's  that  swate  and  smilin'  and  nivir 
a  wurrd  that  isn't  frindly.  Ye  can't  tell  what  it  is, 
but  ye'd  no  more  take  a  liberty  with  her  than  ye'd 
kick  a  keg  of  dynamite.  Not  that  she'd  go  off  with  a 
bang  and  clutter  up  the  place.  She'd  luk  at  ye. 
That's  all — and  that'd  be  enough.  'Twould  be  only 
in  hell  ye'd  get  thawed  out  and  I'm  hopin'  I'll  stop 
short  av  thim  same  tropics.  No,  sorr.  I'm  wishful  to 
help  ye.  Ivery  man  with  a  heart  in  him  is  willing  to 
help  on  a  courtin' — and  'tis  queer  'tis  so  whin  the 
consequinces  av  courtin'  and  marryin'  is  known  to  be 
as  they  are — but  I  cudn't  introduce  ye  to  her  or  put 
ye  in  the  way  av  spakin'  with  her — or  give  her  a  note 
ye'd  be  afther  writin'.  Many's  the  time  I'ved  one 


120  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

it  for  others  but  the  gurrls  was  different.  Whin  ye 
git  to  know  this  wan,  mind  ye,  it'll  have  to  be  reg- 
lar." 

So  that  chance  was  done  for. 

Teddy  was  disappointed,  but  down  in  his  heart, 
he  rejoiced.  He  was  glad  she  was  not  a  girl  Mr. 
Flavin  could  make  free  with.  He  had  not  really 
imagined  the  janitor  could  do  anything  to  help  him. 
He  had  only  hoped;  he  did  not  know  just  what  he 
had  hoped.  He  intended  to  know  her.  That  was 
settled;  but  how?  How?  How? 

For  a  week  he  went  about  with  that  "how?"  beat- 
ing at  his  brain.  For  a  week  he  fed  his  hungry  heart 
on  glimpses  of  Her.  The  days  when  she  went  out 
twice  were  feast  days.  A  Friday  when  she  kept 
within  doors  was  fast  day  indeed. 

Then  came  Sunday.  She  did  not  go  out  until 
afternoon  on  Sundays.  At  least  she  had  not  gone 
out  until  afternoon  on  the  Sunday  before  this  one. 
Teddy  settled  himself  for  a  long  and  wearisome  morn- 
ing with  the  Sunday  papers;  but  just  in  order  to  take 
no  risks,  he  sat  in  the  bay  window  and  made  note  of 
every  flutter  of  petticoats  in  the  doorway  of  the  house 
where  She  was  hidden. 

By  twelve  o'clock  he  had  read  everything  the 
papers  had  to  offer  except  the  advertisements.  He 
yawned,  looked  at  his  watch,  glanced  down  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  121 

street,  and  idly  turned  his  attention  to  the  advertis- 
ing pages  of  the  Herald.  The  "Position  Wanted'' 
columns  were  the  first  to  catch  his  eye.  A  wealth  of 
competent  female  stenographers  and  travelling  com- 
panions and  of  young  men  ably  fitted  to  take  charge 
of  large  business  interests  or  superintend  estates! 
It  was  sad  to  know  that  such  talents  were  being 
allowed  to  languish. 

"Domestic  service."  The  reader's  interest  quick- 
ened. He  studied  the  columns  carefully  and  his 
astonishment  grew  as  he  read.  Here  were  cooks  of 
superlative  ability,  laundresses  whose  merits  were 
bounded  only  by  the  cost  of  advertising  rates, 
general  hous"eworkers  who  could  make  life  for  any 
family  one  round  of  happiness  and  content;  it  ought 
to  be  a  perfectly  simple  matter  to  pick  up  catisfactory 
servants.  Teddy  wondered  why  women  made  such 
rough  going  of  it.  Women  were  not  naturally  ex- 
ecutive— that  was  it.  A  household  should  be  run 
like  a  business.  Now,  if  a  man  were  keeping 
house If  he  had  had  a  wife  he  would  have  ex- 
plained the  thing  to  her;  and,  if  she  had  been  married 
to  him  a  short  time,  she  would  have  argued  the 
question  with  him;  but,  if  she  had  been  married  long 
enough  to  acquire  wisdom,  she  would  have  said: 
"Yes,  dear,"  and  have  gone  on  thinking  of  something 
else.  There  are  certain  fundamental  characteristics 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

in  the  Eternal  Masculine.  When  one  runs  up 
against  them,  one  goes  around,  not  through;  but  it 
takes  a  wife  some  time  to  learn  this  interesting  fact. 

Not  having  a  wife,  Teddy  Burton  kept  his  theories 
and  deductions  to  himself,  and  they  were  slightly 
shaken  by  perusal  of  the  next  department  in  the 
paper.  Here  on  the  very  same  page  with  the  offers 
of  irreproachable  service  were  columns  of  appeals  for 
help.  Nobody  wanted  a  stenographer  or  a  travelling 
companion,  but  small  families  without  children, 
pledged  to  stay  in  the  city,  willing  to  pay  high  wages, 
wanted  general  house  workers.  Families  moving  to 
the  country  clamoured  for  cooks,  laundresses,  wait- 
resses. Queer  that  the  admirable  servants  and  the 
tempting  positions  could  not  get  nearer  together 
than  adjoining  columns  in  the  paper. 

Here  were  men  wanted;  no  one  seemed  to  need  a 
superintendent  for  an  estate,  but  farm  hands  and 
ordinary  all-around  men  for  country  places  were  in 
tremendous  demand. 

Teddy's  eyes  travelled  down  the  column.  Sud- 
denly he  sat  up  as  though  he  had  had  an  electric 
shock,  clutched  the  paper  in  both  hands,  stared  in- 
credulously at  something  in  the  middle  of  the  column 
headed  "Help  Wanted— Male." 

"Handy  man  or  boy  on  small  farm,  used  only  as 
summer  home.  Must  run  small  car  and  care  for 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  123 

garden.  No  heavy  farming."  The  advertisement 
was  like  many  others  but  it  was  the  address  that  had 
caught  his  eye:  "Apply  38  West  Twelfth  Street. 
Bonner." 

Thirty-eight  West  Twelfth  Street!  She  lived 
there.  Bonner — the  janitor  had  said  that  she  worked 
for  "Thim  daft  Bonners." 

They  were  going  to  the  country.  Perhaps  they 
were  going  soon.  She  would  go  with  them  of  course, 
and  he His  world  was  a  barren,  illimitable  wil- 
derness. Summer  stretched  out  before  him — empty, 
forlorn,  interminable. 

She  was  going  to  the  country,  to  a  farm.  He  could 
not  hang  around  a  farm  without  being  regarded  as  a 
suspicious  character;  could  not  even  enjoy  the  tan- 
talizing privilege  of  sitting  somewhere  and,  once  a 
day,  seeing  her  pass  by. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  find  a  place  near 
her  farm  where  he  could  board.  There  would  be  more 
chance  for  informal  meeting  in  the  country.  Snakes, 
for  instance;  all  women  were  afraid  of -snakes.  If 
there  were  no  snakes  there  would  surely  be  cows,  and 
most  city  women  were  afraid  of  cows.  She  didn't 
look  as  though  she  would  be  afraid  of  cows,  but — you 
never  could  tell.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  felt  hope- 
ful; but  a  wave  of  impatience  swept  through  him. 
Suppose  the  snakes  and  the  cows  should  fail  him? 


124  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Suppose  she  could  qualify  for  snake-charmer  and 
milkmaid?  He  was  tired  of  leaving  things  on  the 
knees  of  the  gods.  He  wanted  to  do  something. 
Hang  it  all,  he  envied  the  fellow  who  was  going  to  be 
the  Bonners'  handy  man. 

The  paper  fell  from  his  hands,  the  light  of  inspira- 
tion dawned  in  his  eyes. 

The  Bonners'  handy  man! 

"Teddy,  my  boy,"  the  young  man  in  the  armchair 
said  gaily,  "that's  you" 

It  was  a  snapshot  decision  but  the  more  he  thought 
it  over,  the  better  he  liked  it.  He  had  been  tired  of 
'leaving  the  things  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  Well, 
the  gods,  in  merry  mood,  had  tossed  the  responsi- 
bility into  his  own  hands.  If  he  fumbled  it,  the  fault 
was  his;  but  he  did  not  intend  to  fumble  it. 

His  ideas  of  a  handy  man's  duties  on  a  small  farm 
were  vague,  but  he  could  run  the  car — that  was  a 
cinch.  As  for  the  garden,  he  had  never  really  digged 
and  delved  but  he  knew  something  about  a  garden. 
Macdonald,  the  old  Scotch  gardener  at  home,  was  a 
great  friend  of  his.  He  had  fussed  around  the  gar- 
dens quite  a  lot  and  Mac  had  taught  him  a  good 
many  things.  He  rather  thought  he  could  get  away 
with  the  gardening. 

Being  handy  did  not  sound  difficult.  It  probably 
meant  a  little  of  everything  and  a  good  deal  of  helping 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  125 

the  cook.  He  grinned  joyously  as  that  phase  of  the 
job  presented  itself.  Would  he  be  a  handy  man  for 
the  Bonners? 

He  would. 

If  things  should  go  wrong,  he  could  leave;  but  he 
did  not  intend  to  leave.  He  intended  to  stay  and 
help  the  cook.  When  he  did  leave  he  would  take  the 
•eook  with  him  and  keep  right  on  helping  her. 

His  spirits  rose,  effervesced. 

He  went  up  to  his  room,  looked  his  clothes  over 
carefully,  picked  out  a  well-worn  suit  of  tweeds  he 
had  intended  giving  away,  and  dug  a  battered  cap 
out  of  his  steamer  roll.  As  he  worked,  he  whistled, 
and  Icho,  polishing  furniture  in  a  room  across  the 
hall,  smiled  happily. 

"Some  better  now,"  he  said  to  himself  with  cheer- 
ful satisfaction. 

Edward  Burton  Jr.  was  "some  better."  He  was 
much  better.  His  uncertainty  and  discouragement 
were  gone.  His  path  stretched  straight  before  him — • 
a  bit  thorny  perhaps,  but  what  of  that?  The  only 
sort  of  trail  he  hated  was  a  lost  trail. 

The  next  morning  he  put  on  his  old  tweeds,  laid  the 
old  cap  on  the  hall  table  and  went  to  breakfast  with  a 
look  on  his  face  that  distracted  Icho's  attention  from 
the  unaccustomed  shabbiness  of  his  coat.  Kennedy 
Coles  noticed  both  the  look  and  the  clothes  and 


126  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

pondered  over  them;  but  he  made  no  comment.  The 
boy  was  up  to  something.  From  the  glint  of  his  eye 
Coles  suspected  devilment  and — following  on  the 
heels  of  two  weeks'  restlessness,  moodiness,  alternat- 
ing excitement  and  despondency — the  projected 
devilment  very  likely  had  to  do  with  a  woman.  The 
older  man  felt  slightly  uneasy.  Teddy  Burton  had 
always  flirted  with  any  pretty  girl  he  met,  but  he  had 
invariably  kept  his  head.  There  was  a  certain 
wholesome  common  sense  back  of  his  reckless  gaiety, 
and  he  was  such  a  decent  young  chap,  clean  through 
and  through,  in  spite  of  all  his  racketing  around. 
Still,  many  a  decent  fellow  had  come  an  awful  cropper 
on  a  designing  woman's  account,  and  Teddy  was  a 
rich  man's  only  son. 

Coles  looked  across  the  table  at  the  young  man  with 
the  laughing,  reckless  gray  eyes,  opened  his  mouth  for 
speech,  and  promptly  shut  it  again.  When  had 
youth  ever  listened  to  age — or  to  middle  age?  And, 
after  all,  probably  there  was  nothing  serious  in  the 
air. 

After  breakfast  he  went  to  his  office,  leaving  his 
guest  smoking  and  reading  the  paper  in  the  bay 
window  of  the  library.  If  he  had  stayed  at  home 
until  ten  o'clock  he  would  have  seen  the  aforesaid 
guest  lean  forward  suddenly,  look  intently  out  of  the 
window  for  a  few  moments,  then  fling  his  paper  and 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  127 

cigar  aside  and  hurry  out  of  the  house,  picking  up 
a  disreputable  cap  as  he  went. 

Jean  Mackaye  went  to  market  at  ten  o'clock  that 
morning  and  the  beauty  of  the  day  tempted  her  to 
idleness,  so  she  walked  on  down  to  Washington 
Square  and  sat  on  her  favourite  bench  for  a  while. 
The  fountain  was  playing  for  the  first  time  of  the 
season,  and  little  half-awake  leaves  were  throwing 
soft,  mottled  shadows  over  the  cement  walks,  while 
here  and  there  a  tree  in  full  leafage  bulked  densely 
green  against  the  quivering  mistiness  of  its  neigh- 
bours. 

Jean  sighed  softly,  for  no  reason  save  that  spring  is 
sighing  time.  She  was  not  unhappy.  She  was  not 
even  lonely.  Her  work  kept  her  busy  most  of  the 
time  and  she  had  found  friends.  Mrs.  Bonner  had 
been  a  little  less  absorbed  in  her  work  since  spring 
had  wandered  up  from  the  South,  and  when  she  did 
not  work,  she  followed  Jean  around  the  apartment  or 
sat  with  her  in  the  sunny  room  that  had  been  in- 
tended for  a  guest  room.  She  was  amusing,  incon- 
sequent, dear,  the  little  gray  lady;  and  her  wandering 
talk,  with  its  dashes  and  parentheses  and  sudden 
absolute  abandoning  of  nominatives,  was  vastly  en- 
tertaining. 

Then  there  was  Katy.  Katy  had  acquired  a  way 
of  dropping  into  the  Bonner  apartment  a  dozen  times 


128  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

a  day  with  admiration  in  her  eyes  and  slang  on  her 
tongue.  She  had  given  up  the  outrageous,  plumed 
hat  and  was  wearing  a  demurely  saucy  one  with  a 
white  wing  for  trimming.  Her  new  spring  suit  was 
modelled  as  nearly  as  possible  upon  the  old  blue  suit 
Jean  wore  for  street,  and  she  had  brushed  her  tangle 
of  curly  hair  into  recognizable  imitation  of  Jean's 
simple  coiffure.  Even  her  talk  was  toned  down  a 
trifle;  but  she  would  have  resented  any  suggestion 
that  she  had  been  influenced  by  the  girl  she  so 
plainly  adored. 

Thyra  came,  too,  and  the  other  maids  in  the  house 
— curious  to  see  whether  it  was  true,  as  Katy  re- 
ported, that  the  Bonners'  cook  was  not f such  a  "black 
frost"  as  she  seemed — came  in  shyly  or  boldly, 
according  to  their  temperaments,  but  all  came  again. 

Jean  found  them  more  interesting  than  her  casual 
visitors  of  the  old  days. 

"Someway  or  other  they're  more  human,"  she  had 
written  to  Barbara  Herrick.  "Probably  every- 
body's human,  but  most  of  the  girls  you  and  I  knew 
were  so  padded  with  artificiality  that  one  couldn't  get 
through  to  the  humanity.  Now  these  girls  have  their 
affectations  and  their  reserves,  but  the  big  human 
part  of  them  seems  to  be  nearer  the  surface.  You  can 
get  at  them.  I'm  not  saying  that  some  of  them  don't 
offend  my  taste.  That's  a  natural  consequence  of 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  129 

my  training;  but  Babs,  I'm  awfully  fond  of  some  of 
them  and  I'm  interested  in  most  of  them  and  I'm  the 
better  for  knowing  all  of  them.  A  lifetime  of  work  in 
girls'  clubs  and  settlements  wouldn't  have  taught  me 
what  I've  learned  about  working  girls  in  a  few 
months.  The  de-haut-en-bas  business  doesn't  work, 
and  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  I  don't  believe 
anybody  can  weed  it  out  of  her  relation  to  people 
of  a  lower  social  level.  She's  got  to  get  down  and 
work  with  them  if  she's  going  to  understand  what 
they  do  and  think  and  feel.  Probably  her  different 
training  will  keep  her  from  altogether  understanding 
even  then.  I  don't  want  to  do  kitchen  work  all  my 
life — I  don't  intend  to;  but  if  I  ever  have  money  and 
leisure  again  I  won't  use  them  as  I  did  before.  I  want 
to  help,  Babs — and  I'd  know  how  to  help,  now.  I 
don't  want  to  be  an  uplifter  person.  I  just  want  to 
be  friends." 

She  was  thinking  about  that  letter  as  she  sat  on 
the  bench  with  the  leaf  shadows  flickering  over  her. 
Evidently  she  wasn't  a  deep  or  a  serious-minded 
person.  It  was  discouraging  to  plumb  one's  soul 
and  find  only  shallows.  All  of  the  Cooper  Union 
talk  had  filtered  out  of  her  brain.  She  hadn't  any 
coherent  ideas  about  economics  or  sociology.  She 
couldn't  feel  angry  or  bitter  or  violent.  She  just 
wanted  to  be  friends — wanted  desperately,  with  a 


130  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

lump  in  her  throat  and  an  ache  in  her  heart,  to  be 
friends. 

An  Italian  baby  came  toddling  across  the  walk, 
clutched  her  knees  to  steady  himself,  and  looked  up 
questioningly  into  her  face.  He  was  not  so  very 
clean.  He  was  not  even  pretty,  but  she  caught  him 
up,  hugged  him  and  kissed  the  place  on  his  face  that 
most  nearly  approximated  cleanliness.  She  would 
have  hugged  and  kissed  the  whole  toddling,  unsteady, 
not-very-clean,  questioning  world,  if  she  could  have 
drawn  it  into  her  arms. 

The  baby's  mother — bareheaded,  dark-skinned, 
tragic-eyed,  dressed  in  a  faded  purple  skirt  and  a 
bright  green  waist,  with  a  knot  of  orange  at  her 
throat — looked  up  from  her  lace- working  and  flashed 
a  smile  at  the  young  lady  who  had  kissed  her  Carlo. 
She  was  pleased,  but  not  surprised.  A  baby  like 
her  Carlo!  Why  shouldn't  a  pretty  young  lady 
kiss  him? 

Jean  smiled  back  at  her  as  she  set  the  baby  on 
his  uncertain  feet,  and  turned  toward  home. 

She  belonged  to  a  class  steeped  in  self-conscious- 
ness; but  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  enjoy 
wearing  bright  green  and  purple  and  orange,  and 
sitting,  bareheaded,  in  a  public  park  and  taking 
friendliness  for  granted. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  Mrs.  Bonnet 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  131 

standing  by  one  of  the  windows  in  the  living  room, 
looking  idly  out  into  the  sunlit  world. 

"Thinking  about  the  farm?"  Jean  called  lightly. 

Her  mistress  turned  a  happy  face  toward  her. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  was  doing,  child.  You 
see,  the  young  man  interrupted  my  work.  I'm  so 
pleased  with  him.  I'd  have  liked  you  to  see  him; 
but  I'm  sure  you'll  be  pleased,  too."  1 

"Young  man?"  echoed  the  girl. 

"Yes,  for  the  farm,  you  know.  Didn't  I  tell  you? 
Rufus  put  the  advertisement  in  yesterday.  We 
always  put  it  in  on  the  twenty-fifth;  but  I  didn't  ex- 
pect any  one  so  soon — or  so  nice.  They  aren't  so  very 
nice  usually.  Most  of  the  nice  ones  have  steady 
work,  I  suppose,  but  we  have  to  pick  up  a  new  one 
each  year.  It  would  be  better  if  we  could  get  some 
one  up  there  in  the  neighbourhood,  but  we  can't." 

Surprise,  alarm,  distaste  chased  each  other  across 
the  face  of  the  listening  girl.  A  young  man!  She 
might  have  known  that  a  man  would  be  needed  on  a 
farm,  but  she  had  never  given  the  outdoor  work  a 
thought. 

Now  calamity  was  upon  her.  A  young  man  hang- 
ing around  her  kitchen,  eating  at  her  table,  thinking 
that  he  could  be  familiar  with  the  cook!  All  her 
newly  acquired  democracy  melted  away.  All  her 
eager  desire  to  be  friends  vanished.  If  it  had  been 


132  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

a  girl She  would  not  mind  working  with  an- 
other girl  now.  She  had  found  out  that  "Judy 
O'Grady  and  the  Colonel's  lady"  really  were  "sisters 
under  the  skin"  and  she  did  not  feel  so  fussy  about 
-the  skin  as  she  had  before  she  learned  to  know  Katy 
and  Thyra  and  Susan  and  other  Judys;  but  a  young 
man  was  different.  Her  imagination  pictured  the 
worst.  Hadn't  Mrs.  Bonner  said  that  the  nice  men 
all  had  steady  work?  Only  the  most  ordinary  sort 
of  a  man  would  be  drifting  around  willing  to  take  a 
summer's  job  as  handy  man  at  small  wages.  She 
could  see  him — hulking,  stupid,  bad-mannered,  not 
very  clean. 

"He  was  a  little  bit  shabby,"  Mrs.  Bonner  was 
saying,  "but  absolutely  clean  and  neat,  and  such  a 
likeable  face — not  handsome,  but  frank  and  smiling 
and  boyish.  He  had  good  manners,  too.  I  felt 
about  him  the  way  I  felt  about  you  when  I  first 
saw  you,  only  not  so  much  so.  I  believe  we're  going 
to  have  a  very  cheerful  summer.  Everything  is 
working  out  so  well." 

She  was  satisfied,  sure  of  sympathy,  and  Jean 
managed  to  smile,  though  protest  was  clamouring 
within  her. 

Not  hulking  and  stupid  but  worse,  what  Katy 
called  a  "jollier" — a  young  man  who  fancied  him- 
self, and  would  be  impertinent,  fresh.  Oh,  why,  why 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  133 

did  people  go  to  the  country?  One  could  get  along 
so  nicely  without  a  man,  in  town.  To  be  sure  there 
was  Mr.  Bonner,  but  he  wasn't  exactly  a  man.  He 
was  a  scientist.  When  one  needed  anything  done  in 
town,  a  man  came  and  did  it  and  went  away.  Some- 
times he  even  went  away  before  he  finished  doing  it. 

A  white  house  among  green  trees  rose  before  her 
mental  vision.  Orioles  sang  to  her  from  orchard 
boughs.  Lilacs  hung  over  stone  walls  to  pour  fra- 
grance in  her  path.  She  sighed  but  shook  her  head. 
All  her  farm  enthusiasm  had  oozed  away. 

She  longed  desperately  to  stay  in  town.  Maples? 
Orioles?  Lilacs?  They  were  heavenly  things,  but 
Mrs.  Bonner's  nice  young  man  would  spoil  them  all. 

She  thought  about  him  constantly  during  the 
busy,  last  days  of  packing  and  making  the  apartment 
ready  for  summer  emptiness,  and  her  efforts  to  meet 
Mrs.  Bonner's  eagerness  with  responsive  gayety  did 
not  ring  quite  true;  but  the  little  gray  lady  was  too 
excited  to  notice  the  failure. 

She  still  sat  at  her  desk  a  good  deal  of  the  time, 
but  the  Faroes  were  left  to  their  island  isolation  while 
she  busied  herself  with  catalogues — catalogues  of 
groceries,  of  fertilizers,  of  flowers,  of  vegetables. 
Every  day  she  went  out  and  bought  prodigious  quan- 
tities of  things,  coming  home  shamefaced  but  happy. 

Jean,  attempting  to  reason  with  her  on  the  subject 


134  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

of  household  supplies,  found  her  conscious  of  her 
folly  but  joyously  unrepentant. 

"My  dear  I  know  we  won't  eat  four  dozen  cans  of 
sardines,"  she  admitted.  "I  don't  like  sardines  my- 
self. I've  never  cared  for  fish  of  any  kind  since  I 
lived  on  it  in  the  Faroes;  but  the  sardines  were  a 
'special,'  and  they  did  seem  very  cheap — for  'large, 
boneless'  ones  you  know.  There's  a  young  man  I 
always  go  to  at  Macy's.  He's  very  intelligent  and 
helpful,  and  when  I  get  comfortably  fixed  in  a  chair 
beside  one  of  the  little  tables  and  he  goes  through 
the  catalogue  with  me,  it  seems  perfectly  foolish  to 
skip  anything.  He  has  a  way  of  telling  you  how 
nice  things  are,  and  how  they  will  help  out  when  one 
is  in  the  country  and  there  isn't  a  grocery  store 
within  miles.  After  he's  explained  to  you  about 
anything  you  feel  as  though  you'd  be  flying  in  the 
face  of  Providence  if  you  didn't  buy  quantities  of  it. 
Anchovy  paste  for  instance,  and  maraschino  cherries, 
and  chutney,  and  capers,  and  ripe  olives,  and  pre- 
served ginger,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Rufus  and 
I  never  touch  them,  but  I  buy  them  every  spring. 
We've  got  cupboards  full. 

"And  prunes!  I  do  hope  you  like  prunes,  Jean. 
My  man  always  makes  me  believe  that  I'd  be  ab- 
solutely lost  if  my  prune  supply  should  give  out,  so 
I've  a  tremendous  lot  of  them." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  135 

"You'd  better  let  me  buy  the  groceries,"  Jean 
suggested;  but  the  proposition  was  promptly  vetoed. 

"Not  for  worlds,"  Mrs.  Bonner  said  laughingly. 
"I  love  it.  I  never  could  enjoy  buying  a  pound  of 
anything  at  a  corner  store,  but  when  there's  a 
catalogue — and  some  one  to  explain  how  good  things 
are — that's  different.  And  then  it's  rather  like 
outfitting  for  a  long  trip — only  I  never  carried  ginger 
and  chutney  on  a  northern  trail.  Once,  when  I 
went  down  the  Mackenzie  to  the  Arctic,  we  had 
nothing  but  salt  fish  for  four  weeks.  I  was  dread- 
fully sick  afterward — couldn't  eat  real  food;  but  I 
was  the  first  white  woman  to  make  that  trip.  There 
were  only  the  Indians  and  a  missionary,  but  I  didn't 
miss  other  women.  I  wouldn't  dare  say  it  to  most 
people,  Jean,  but  other  women  are  a  frightful  nui- 
sance generally — on  a  hard  trip,  you  know.  Even 
when  they  don't  cry,  they  clutter." 

Then  she  told  the  story  of  the  Mackenzie  trip  and 
at  the  end  of  it  her  audience  hugged  her.  Jean 
always  hugged  her  at  the  end  of  her  northland  stor- 
ies. She  looked  so  little  and  so  gentle  and  so  home- 
keeping,  and  her  low  voice  flowed  so  softly  through 
tales  of  grim  dangers  and  hardships  she  had  shared — 
of  far  beauties  she  had  seen. 

The  garden  catalogues  needed  no  assistance  from  a 
suave  and  persuasive  salesman.  Eloquence  had  gone 


136  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

to  their  making  and  imagination  did  the  rest.  Mrs. 
Bonner  revelled  in  them. 

"Jean,"  she  called,  one  morning,  and,  going  to 
her  study,  Jean  found  her  shining  eyed,  rapt,  a  seed 
catalogue  held  close  to  her  near-sighted  eyes. 

"Listen,  child,"  she  said,  "I  can't  decide  which 
muskmelons  to  try.  Here's  one  that  is  flight- 
resisting,  vigorous,  highly  coloured,  fine-textured  and 
of  delicious  flavour.'  That  sounds  good,  doesn't 
it?  But  I  like  the  sound  of  this  one,  too.  It's  'early* 
and  has  'thick  meat  and  thin  rind,'  and  is  'firm* 
and  'melting'  and  'very  sweet.'  And  there's  another 
that's  'wonderfully  luscious  and  juicy  and  solid.' 
It's  'eatable  clear  through  to  the  outside  coating' — 
and  it's  'enormously  productive.'  Which  do  you 
think  we'd  enjoy  most?" 

Jean  yielded  to  the  spell. 

"I  rather  like  the  luscious  one,"  she  said  doubt- 
fully. "Luscious  is  such  a  fine  melony  word,  isn't 
it?  But  they  all  sound  delicious.  I  believe  I'd  say 
'eeny,  meeny' — and  decide  that  way.  Do  you  al- 
ways have  heaps  of  them?" 

Mrs.  Bonner' s  radiance  dulled  slightly,  but  very 
slightly. 

"Well,  we've  never  been  very  lucky  with  musk- 
melons,"  she  confessed.  "They  seem  difficult;  but 
I  think  the  seasons  were  unusual  or  the  hills  were 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  137 


wrong,  or  something.  I'm  sure  they'll  do  well  this 
summer  if  we  choose  the  right  kind." 

On  another  day  the  mistress  of  the  house  wandered 
into  the  kitchen,  garden  book  in  hand. 

"I  want  a  blue  and  white  border,  Jean,"  she  said 
dreamily.  "It  seems  very  simple — delphiniums  you 
know  and  platycodon  and  speedwell  and  white  phlox 
and  lilies  and  things  like  that — just  a  hundred  feet 
of  it  somewhere  along  a  path." 

Or  perhaps  she  came  down  with  rose  fever. 

"I've  always  been  afraid  of  roses,"  she  admitted. 
"They  sound  so  buggy  and  blighty;  but  this  book 
says  anybody  can  have  them — the  kind  that  bloom 
'abundantly  and  uninterruptedly  all  summer.' 
That's  the  way  the  author  puts  it.  They'd  be 
lovely  for  the  house,  wouldn't  they — great  bowls  full 
of  them  everywhere." 

She  bought  seeds  enough  to  plant  a  dozen  gardens, 
and  she  ordered  hundreds  of  plants;  but  she  had  her 
lucid  intervals.  In  one  of  them  she  acknowledged 
that  the  orgy  was  a  yearly  event. 

"I  simply  can't  be  sensible  about  it,  Jean,"  she 
said.  "I  don't  even  try  to  be  sensible.  There's  a 
part  of  my  brain  that  remembers  about  mildew  and 
cut  worms  and  drought  and  flea  beetles  and  all  those 
nasty  nuisances,  and  that  knows  our  gardens  have 
never  amounted  to  anything;  but  the  rest  of 


138  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

brain  goes  fey  when  time  for  moving  to  the  farm 
comes.  It  believes  anything.  Its  fruit  is  all  juicy  and 
spicy  and  luscious,  and  its  vegetables  are  all  large  and 
fine-flavoured,  and  its  flowers  bloom  wonderfully 
and  smell  like  Araby  the  Blest.  I  do  hope  that  that 
part  of  my  brain  will  never  wake  up — the  part  that 
believes  and  dreams. 

"I  can't  garden.  I'm  so  near  sighted  I  can't  get 
close  enough  to  the  ground  to  tell  a  weed  from  a 
seedling,  and  a  cut  worm  would  have  to  crawl  up  and 
sit  on  my  shoulder  before  I'd  see  him;  but  I  do  so 
enjoy  planning  the  gardens  I  don't  have. 

"  Maybe  Edward  really  can  garden.  Did  I  tell  you 
his  name  was  Edward?  I'm  glad  it  isn't  Oscar.  We 
had  an  Oscar  last  year.  His  references  said  he  was 
sober  and  honest,  and  he  was;  but  I  did  dislike  him 
so.  It  was  his  mouth  I  think.  He  kept  it  open. 
Anyway,  I'm  prejudiced  against  Oscars — and  Mil- 
tons,  too.  You'd  think  a  Milton  would  be  splendid, 
wouldn't  you — dignified  and  noble  and  all  that? 
We  got  a  Milton  when  Oscar  left.  He  was  American, 
too.  I'd  never  tried  an  American — only  Swedes  and 
Norwegians  and  Germans  and  Poles  and  Italians  and 
Irish.  I  had  tremendous  hopes  of  Milton  but  he 
wouldn't  do  at  all.  He  drank  too  much — hard  cider, 
you  know.  And  he  made  love  to  Hannah.  After 
all  that  was  rather  splendid — making  love  to  Hannah, 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  139 

I  mean.  No  coward  could  have  done  it.  Men  have 
been  given  medals  for  less.  Probably  it  was  the  hard 
cider. 

"What  was  it  Lincoln  said  when  somebody  com- 
plained to  him  about  General  Grant  drinking  too 
much?  Said  he'd  like  to  know  where  Grant  got  his 
whisky  so  he  could  send  some  like  it  to  his  other 
generals;  wasn't  that  it? 

"Well,  hard  cider  must  be  a  drink  for  heroes  if  it 
could  give  a  man  courage  enough  to  make  love  to 
Hannah.  Still,  I'm  prejudiced  against  Miltons. 

"Edward's  a  pleasant  name,  I  think,  don't  you? 
Half  way  between  Algernon  and  John,  you  know — 
not  too  poetic  and  not  too  practical — just  sensible  and 
self-respecting.  I  knew  an  Edward  once — when  I 
was  a  girl — only  he  had  brown  eyes.  He  used  to 
come  very  often.  We  called  him  Teddy." 

The  little  gray  lady  fell  silent  all  of  a  sudden,  but 
there  was  a  smile  on  her  lips.  Evidently  her  mem- 
ories of  the  Teddy  of  long  ago  were  pleasant  ones. 

Jean  wondered  at  her.  Personally  she  detested  the 
name  of  Edward.  She  had  never  realized  before  that 
she  did  detest  it;  but  she  did — namby-pamby,  pink- 
shirt  and  purple-tie  sort  of  a  name!  As  for  calling  a 
man  Teddy — ridiculous!  She  hoped  the  handy 
man's  last  name  was  Jones.  If  it  was,  that  was  what 
she  would  call  him — Jones. 


140  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

As  the  day  of  departure  came  nearer  the  obnoxious 
Edward  loomed  larger  and  her  spirits  sank  lower;  but 
every  one  was  too  busy  to  notice  her  unaccustomed 
gloom.  Mrs.  Bonner  was  buying  porch  furniture  and 
enjoying  the  proceeding  enormously. 

"So  gay,"  she  told  Jean,  "and  so  un- Victorian. 
Victoria  was  a  good  queen,  but  I'm  glad  we're  living 
her  down.  I  wonder  what  she'd  have  thought  of 
yellow  wicker  and  black-striped  yellow  linen  with 
bunches  of  bright-coloured  field  flowers  on  it?" 

Even  Mr.  Bonner  felt  the  excitement  in  the  air, 
forsook  his  study,  and  went  about  doing  things  not 
even  remotely  connected  with  the  moths  of  North 
America.  He  blinked  from  under  the  brim  of  his  old- 
fashioned  soft  black  hat  in  mild  surprise  at  the 
world's  strenuousness  and  his  own  unwonted  activi- 
ties; but  he  was  exceedingly  useful,  if  one  gave  him  a 
memorandum.  Without  a  memorandum  he  was 
helpless;  but  as  his  wife  pointed  out  to  Jean,  a  great 
many  men  would  have  lost  the  memorandum. 

"Rufus  is  so  careful  and  methodical  about  his 
notes,"  she  said  admiringly.  "It's  a  splendid  habit. 
He  never  loses  a  paper  with  writing  on  it." 


CHAPTER  IX 

WEDNESDAY,  May  third,  was  the  date  set  for  the 
exodus. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  Jean  locked  the 
last  trunk  and  turned  the  luggage  over  to  two  burly 
expressmen.  Boxes  and  barrels  had  gone  the  day 
before.  The  apartment  was  cheerless,  shrouded, 
overshadowed  by  its  coming  desolation.  Looking 
about  her,  Mrs.  Bonner's  maid  of  all  work  smiled 
with  satisfaction.  She  was  tired  clear  through  to  the 
immortal  soul  of  her,  but  the  place  wore  quite  the 
proper  look  for  a  town  house  in  summer.  She  had 
been  over-conscientious  about  it  perhaps.  The  apart- 
ment chandeliers  hardly  justified  covering  and  the 
pictures  might  have  gone  unveiled  but  Griggsby — 
her  useless  butler — had  always  had  the  chandeh'ers 
and  pictures  covered.  Where  memory  of  Griggsby 's 
methods  had  not  served  her,  common  sense  had 
helped;  and,  in  moments  of  utter  doubt,  she  had 
written  to  Barbara  Herrick  who  had  promptly  for- 
warded information  extracted  from  the  trusty  and 
autocratic  Sarah. 

141 


142  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Jean  had  relaxed  her  stoicism  before  the  Herricka 
left  for  their  little  country  place  in  the  Ramapo  hills 
and  had  spent  an  hour  of  mixed  emotions  with 
Barbara  in  Abingdon  Square.  Barbara's  emotions 
had  been  quite  as  mixed  as  her  friend's. 

"It's  larky,  Jean,"  she  had  said,  "but  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  doing  something  'dark  and  dreadful, 
don't  you?  Clandestine  rendezvous  and  guilty 
secrets  and  hidden  identity  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Tom  laughed  at  us  all  through  breakfast;  but  I  told 
him  you  wouldn't  come  to  the  house  or  to  any  place 
where  you  might  meet  people  you  knew,  and  you 
wouldn't  let  me  go  to  your  apartment,  and  I 
simply  would  see  you;  so  we  had  to  meet  in  some 
funny  place  like  this,  though  Tom  says  we're  as  likely 
to  meet  business  men  who  know  us  here  as  anywhere 
— going  about  to  factories  and  wholesale  places  you 
know." 

That  idea  of  the  wandering  business  man  had 
shortened  the  visit,  but  it  had  been  very  jolly  and 
comforting  even  if  it  was  short. 

"You're  prettier  than  ever,"  Barbara  had  said 
judicially,  "but  you're  different.  I  don't  know  just 
what  it  is,  but  it's  there.  You're  just  as  nice  and  silly 
as  you  used  to  be;  I'm  awfully  glad  of  that.  I  was 
afraid  working  might  have  made  you  serious  or  noble 
or  something,  but  Tom  said  your  sense  of  humour 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  143 

would  die  hard.  Still  you  are  different.  You  look — 
well,  you  look  as  though  you  could  get  up  and  tackle 
'most  anything.  If  you  aren't  careful,  you'll  get  to 
looking  positively  cocky,  dear." 

Sitting  in  Mrs.  Bonner's  stripped  and  cheerless 
living-room,  Jean  remembered  the  warning  and 
laughed. 

Babs  was  such  an  infant;  but  she  hadn't  been  so 
far  wrong.  Jean  felt  that  she  would  "tackle  almost 
anything,"  if  the  occasion  demanded;  and,  prob- 
ably, she  looked  it. 

She  had  tackled  so  may  fearsome  things  in  the  past 
few  months  and  none  of  them  had  proved  too  much 
for  her — none  of  them  but  pie  crust.  She  couldn't 
make  good  pie  crust.  The  cook  books  had  such  a 
silly  way  of  telling  one  to  '  'cut  the  shortening  in  with 
a  knife  "  and  not  to  handle  the  stuff.  How  on  earth 
you  were  going  to  mix  it  well  and  roll  it  and  pinch  it 

Still  she  intended  to  learn  how  to  make  good 

pies. 

Moving  her  family  was  not  the  simplest  of  her  ex- 
periments but,  so  far,  everything  had  gone  well.  The 
apartment  was  in  order,  the  packing  was  done,  the 
woollens  were  put  away  for  the  summer,  the  bills  were 
paid,  the  supplies  were  stopped,  the  post  office  had 
been  notified  of  forwarding  address;  she  checked  items 
off  on  her  fingers  with  a  bland,  self-satisfied  smile. 


144  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

The  luggage  had  gone,  and  Mr.  Bonner's  hat  and 
coat,  bag  and  umbrella,  and  two  suit  cases — filled 
with  papers  from  which  he  refused  to  be  separated — 
were  ready  in  the  hall.  So  were  Mrs.  Bonner's  hat 
and  coat,  veil  and  gloves,  and  bag.  Their  rubbers 
were  in  their  bags  and  there  was  a  little  box  of 
luncheon,  and  each  elderly  cherub  was  corralled  in  a 
study  so  that  neither  could  absent-mindedly  stray  off 
out  of  the  house  and  forget  about  the  train.  The  cab 
was  ordered. 

Yes;  she  had  managed  beautifully.  Now  she 
would  go  in  and  dress  and  pack  her  own  bag. 

The  actual  trip  would  be  easy  enough,  in  spite  of 
the  pile  of  hand  luggage,  for  Mr.  Flavin  would  pack 
the  bags  into  the  cab  and  there  would  be  porters  at 
the  station.  Suddenly  her  comfortable  satisfaction 
collapsed. 

There  would  also  be  a  handy  man  at  the  station ! 
She  had  forgotten  about  the  creature,  but  of  course 
he  would  go  up  with  them.  Probably  he  would  ex- 
pect to  sit  with  the  cook  and  talk  to  her.  She  jumped 
up  hastily  and  pulled  the  only  raised  shade  down 
with  a  vicious  jerk. 

A  young  man  was  going  to  be  taught  his  place — 
immediately,  thoroughly,  and  for  all  time. 

The  teaching  did  not  begin  according  to  her  sched- 
ule; for  Edward  was  not  at  the  station.  No  one  ex- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  145 

cept  Jean  seemed  to  have  expected  him  to  be  there 
and  it  was  only  after  the  family  was  comfortably 
settled  on  the  train  that  Mrs.  Bonner  mentioned  him. 
"I  had  thought  perhaps  Edward  might  be  useful 
about  getting  us  off,"  she  said  casually,  "but  he 
suggested  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go  up  to 
the  farm  a  day  or  two  ahead  of  us  and  have  the  house 
open  and  put  the  car  in  order  so  that  he  could  meet  us 
with  it.  He  was  quite  right,  too.  You've  managed 
perfectly,  Jean.  I've  never  had  such  an  easy  time 
getting  off  to  the  country.  Hannah  always  kept 
things  so  stirred  up  and  yet  she  never  was  ready.  We 
almost  always  made  two  or  three  starts  before  we  got 
away  and  then  we  left  most  of  the  important  things. 
I  can  outfit  perfectly  when  I'm  going  away  on  a  trip 
all  by  myself  and  don't  have  to  bother  about  the 
things  I'm  leaving  behind;  but  moving  is  different. 
I  don't  quite  see  how  you  do  it  but  I'm  sure  nothing 
has  been  neglected  and  you  haven't  fussed  at  us  at  all 
or  lost  your  temper  or  cried.  Hannah  always  used 
to  be  tempery  and  she  almost  always  cried  before  we 
got  off.  Just  nerves,  you  know.  I'm  glad  you  aren't 
a  nervous  person.  I'd  much  rather  live  with  a 
woman  who  was  stupid  or  dirty  or  wicked  than  with  a 
nervous  woman.  Not  that  you're  stupid  or  dirty  or 
wicked.  I'm  beginning  to  think  you're  altogether 
perfect,  child." 


146  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

She  leaned  over  to  pat  Jean's  hand  affectionately 
and  the  girl  very  nearly  imitated  the  unlamented 
Hannah  and  cried,  not  so  much  because  she  was 
nervous  as  because  she  was  very  tired — and  it  was 
good  to  be  praised  and  appreciated. 

Being  efficient  as  a  matter  of  abstract  principle 
might  be  all  very  well  in  its  way  but  it  was  a  lonesome 
way.  One  would  rather  be  efficient  for  somebody — 
and  be  loved  for  it. 

On  second  thought  she  laughed,  instead  of  crying. 
Poor  Hannah!  If  she  could  have  laughed,  perhaps 
she  would  not  have  cried,  but  in  all  the  illuminating 
references  to  the  departed  one  from  which  Jean  had 
built  up  a  mental  image  of  her,  there  had  been  no 
mention  of  a  sense  of  humour.  Shepherding  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bonner  without  a  robust  sense  of  humour  to 
ease  the  strain,  might,  Jean  reflected,  make  almost 
any  woman  nervous. 

The  train  rolled  along  through  the  tunnel,  across 
the  Harlem  and  out  into  Surburbia — a  Surburbia 
transfigured  by  spring,  justifying  itself,  meeting  all 
the  comic  supplement  jokes  gayly,  triumphantly. 

Across  every  little  vegetable  garden  tender  green 
things  marched  in  straight  or  straggling  lines.  The 
tomato  plants  and  potted  geraniums,  that  thousands 
of  weary  commuters  had  carried  out  from  town  on 
late  trains  and  planted  before  early  trains,  were  thriv- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  147 

ing  lustily.  Hardy  annuals  were  popping  up  out  of 
garden  beds  and  clumps  of  perennials  looked  down 
superciliously  on  the  upstarts. 

Here  and  there  an  old-fashioned  garden  was  already 
abloom  with  iris  and  tulips  and  daffodils.  Lilac 
buds  were  swelling.  Dooryards  were  adrift  with  fruit 
blossom. 

Farther  out,  gardens  expanded,  orchards  ran 
merrily  up  over  little  hills  to  look  at  the  blue  water 
of  the  Sound.  "  Estates  "  shut  themselves  away  from 
cottage  Suburbia  behind  high  walls  and  forbidding 
gates,  but  spring  bloom  and  leafage  peeped  over  the 
walls  and  through  the  grilles  of  the  gateways. 

Still  farther  away  were  little  towns,  close  set, 
clustered  round  by  summer  homes  but  outside  the 
commuters'  paradise;  and,  at  last,  after  a  change  of 
cars  at  New  Haven,  came  the  real  country — the 
country  of  white  farmhouse  and  broad  fields  and 
pasturing  cattle,  of  brooks  and  woods  and  untidy 
stone  walls  along  which  already  the  weeds  grew  high. 

Jean,  looking  from  the  car  window,  smiled  friendly- 
wise  at  Suburbia,  even  in  its  most  suburban  mood. 
She  had  always  hated  it;  but,  some  way  or  other,  it 
appealed  to  her  now.  She  understood  it  better.  She 
could  have  enjoyed  training  yellow  honeysuckle  over 
a  ready-made  bungalow  and  planting  round  beds  of 
foliage  plants  in  its  front  yard. 


148  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

The  walls  and  gates  of  certain  country  places 
along  the  Sound  brought  gleams  of  recognition  to  her 
eyes.  She  knew  well  all  that  lay  behind  the  barriers 
but  she  did  not  yearn  for  the  familiar  grandeur. 
What  she  wanted  was  the  country — the  green,  smil- 
ing, blossom-strewn,  unspoiled  country;  and,  when, 
finally,  the  train  slipped  away  into  the  quiet  places, 
she  curled  herself  up  as  comfortably  as  she  could  on 
the  hard,  red  plush  seat  and  forgot  that  she  was 
tired.  She  did  not  think.  She  did  not  feel.  She 
only  sat  there  and  watched  spring  flow  past  the  car 
window. 

Now  and  then  the  train  stopped  at  a  little  station 
and  there  was  a  flurry  of  coming  and  going  through 
the  door  that  the  burly  brakeman  threw  open;  but 
she  did  not  turn  to  look. 

After  a  while  she  began  wondering  about  the  homes 
that  drifted  by.  She  was  not  interested  in  the  hurry- 
ing restless  folk  who  were  travelling  with  her;  but 
the  people  who  were  living  in  those  tree-shadowed 
farmhouses  set  beside  the  winding,  luring  white  roads 
• — she  liked  thinking  about  them. 

A  woman  came  out  of  an  open  door,  crossed  the 
yard,  and  called  to  a  man  who  was  ploughing  in  a  field 
behind  the  house.  Jean  could  not  see  her  face  but 
she  stood  under  an  apple  tree  in  bloom  and  the 
breeze  blew  her  apron  out  into  fluttering  white  folds 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  149 

that  gleamed  radiantly  in  the  sunlight.  Two  small 
children  knelt  at  a  road's  edge  near  the  railway  and 
watched  the  train  go  by.  Their  upturned  faces  were 
dimpling  with  smiles  and  the  violets  they  had  been 
gathering  were  bunched  tightly  in  their  small  hot 
hands. 

A  young  man  with  a  puppy  frolicking  at  his  heels 
stopped  on  his  way  toward  a  long,  low  red  barn,  to 
lean  across  a  fence  and  talk  to  a  girl  who  was  feeding 
a  wobbly  little  calf. 

Across  the  crest  of  an  upland  field  a  man  walked, 
silhouetted  against  the  sky  and  swaying  rythmically 
as  he  scattered  seed  broadcast  over  the  brown  wait- 
ing earth. 

And  everywhere,  in  and  out  and  round  about,  was 
Maytime.  Surely,  surely,  country  folk  in  Maytime 
worked  and  played  and  loved  and  lived  and  were 
glad. 

The  girl  at  the  car  window  began  to  play  a  game, 
a  game  of  homes.  She  filled  every  farmhouse  with  a 
family  of  her  own  choosing,  a  family  to  fit  the  house. 
There  were  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  old  men 
with  wrinkled,  rosy  faces,  and  old  women  with  quiet 
eyes,  but  all  of  the  old  folk  had  young  hearts  that 
remembered  their  own  springtime. 

And  there  were  cheerful,  contented,  middle-aged 
folk,  not  too  old  yet  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the  spring- 


150  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

time  though  the  thrill  of  it  they  missed.  There  were 
young  husbands  and  wives  with  babies  toddling  be- 
side them  and  fulfilment  of  promise  in  their  faces 
and  their  hearts;  and  there  were  boys  and  girls — 
oh,  swarms  of  boys  and  girls  at  courting  age — girls 
who  sighed  and  boys  who  longed  and  spring  to  teach 
them  the  meaning  of  the  sighing  and  the  longing. 
And  then  there  were  the  children,  children  every- 
where— children  and  puppies  and  kittens  and  calves 
and  colts  and  lambs  and  fluffy  yellow  chickens  and 
tiny  pink  pigs,  all  so  foolish,  so  young,  so  at  one  with 
the  spring.  Extraordinarily  nice  families,  all  of  them. 

yVhen  she  tired  of  sorting  out  families,  Jean  began 
choosing  a  home  for  herself.  That  was  absorbing, 
fascinating  business.  One  might  so  easily  miss  the 
perfect  thing.  The  homes  that  were  in  full  view  were 
never  quite  satisfactory,  but  glimpses  of  white  gables 
seen  through  gaps  in  leafy  greenness  tantalized;  far- 
off  dots  of  white  on  distant  hilltops  allured;  vague 
outlines,  at  the  far  ends  of  crooked  shady  lanes,  prom- 
ised. 

Somewhere,  out  in  the  spring  world,  was  the 
Farm  o'  Dreams.  Any  curve  of  the  road  might 
bring  it  into  view.  All  the  world  hinted  at  it,  and 
Jean  dreamed  of  it  with  a  wistful  droop  of  the  lips 
and  a  mistful  softness  in  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  plan  a  family  for  that  Farm  o'  Dreams 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  151 

but  one  did  not  make  a  home  alone.  Perhaps  some 
day,  in  the  springtime — — 

"Jean,  I  think  I  am  hungry."  It  was  Mr.  Bonner's 
voice  and  there  was  surprise  in  it,  a  tinge  of  injurya 
In  Hannah's  day  being  hungry  would  have  been 
natural  enough  but  Hannah's  successor  had  always 
forestalled  any  such  contingency.  He  had  grown 
accustomed  to  having  his  needs  supplied  before  he 
knew  that  they  existed  and  now,  after  a  trying 
morning,  he  was  allowed  to  be  hungry.  Really,  this 
moving  business  was  most  upsetting. 

Jean  was  remorseful,  apologetic.  She  soothed  him 
with  minced  chicken  and  sandwiches  and  with  coffee 
out  of  a  thermos  bottle  and  she  ate  six  sandwiches 
herself  by  way  of  proving  that  she  was  a  healthy 
young  woman  as  well  as  a  dreamer  of  dreams. 

After  luncheon,  she  allowed  the  pacified  scientist 
to  tell  her  the  scientific  names  of  all  the  moths  com- 
mon in  the  Connecticut  valley  and  to  describe  each 
of  them  minutely.  It  amused  him  and  it  did  not 
hurt  her,  and  one  cannot  eat  six  chicken  sandwiches 
and  then  take  up  the  thread  of  a  dream  where  it  was 
broken  off. 

She  had  just  been  formally  introduced  to  Lepidop- 
tera  and  Heterocera  when  Mrs.  Bonner,  who  had  been 
dozing,  opened  her  eyes,  glanced  out  of  the  window, 
aad  reached  for  her  travelling  bag. 


152  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Here  we  are,"  she  said  as  the  train  stopped  beside 
a  shabby  station.  "Perhaps  the  brakeman  will  take 
the  suit  cases,  Jean.  He's  always  very  kind — and 
Edward  will  be  outside.  I'm  sure  he  will.  He 
seemed  the  kind  of  young  man  who  would  think 
about  hand  luggage." 

As  she  spoke,  some  one  took  the  travelling  bag  from 
her,  picked  up  the  suit  cases  and  handed  them  over  to 
a  sturdy  boy  and  gathered  the  umbrellas  together. 

Edward  was  not  outside,  he  was  inside. 

Jean  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  pleasant,  sun- 
browned  face  whose  eyes  avoided  hers.  Then  she. 
was  walking  down  the  aisle  in  the  wake  of  a  tall, 
tweed-clad  back  that,  for  some  reason  she  could 
not  define,  did  not  look  like  the  back  of  a  handy 
man. 

And  yet  he  was  handy,  extraordinarily  handy.  He 
transferred  the  party  from  the  train  to  a  waiting  mo- 
tor car,  expeditously  and  painlessly  tucked  the  robes 
about  them,  slipped  a  leather  cushion  behind  Mrs. 
Bonner's  back,  and  went  to  see  about  the  luggage  all 
without  hurry  or  fuss  or  confusion.  Even  Jean,  who 
was  hotly  resenting  his  existence,  had  to  admit  that. 

He  did  not  act  exactly  like  a  trained  servant.  She 
noticed  that  he  lifted  his  cap  instead  of  touching  it  as 
he  turned  away.  Possibly  he  was  the  black  sheep  of 
some  decent  family  and  had  taken  the  place  not  be- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  153 

cause  he  was  used  to  such  work  but  because  he  was 
stranded.  Something  must  be  wrong  with  him  or  he 
would  not  take  a  general  utility  job  in  the  country 
at  low  wages. 

Probably  he  drank.  That  was  usually  the  trouble. 
She  would  have  to  watch  him.  Mrs.  Bonner  was 
such  an  unsuspecting  blessed,  and  a  handy  man 
could  have  delirium  tremens  in  the  front  yard  without 
Mr.  Bonner's  noticing  it. 

"Did  he  have  references?"  Jean  asked  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Bonner,  who  was  peering  benevolently  after 
her  handy  man,  looked  half  guilty,  half  triumphant. 
"I  forgot  to  ask  him;  but  you  see  it  has  all  worked  out 
beautifully.  I  can't  seem  to  remember  about  refer- 
ences. They  never  interest  me  at  all,  and,  anyway, 
nobody  tells  the  truth  in  references,  so  what's 

the  use?  But  Edward's  eyes Have  you  noticed 

what  nice  eyes  he  has?" 

Jean  had  noticed.  They  were  gray  eyes,  very  dark 
gray  eyes  with  a  laughing  light  in  them. 

When  he  came  back  from  attending  to  the  lug- 
gage she  studied  them  more  carefully.  The  laugh  in 
them  was  not  reckless — only  cheerful  and  boyish. 
He  did  not  look  like  a  hard  drinker,  but  one  never 
could  tell;  and  if  he  wasn't  a  drinker  he  was  probably 
something  worse.  Drinking  was  a  good,  positive, 
likeable  vice  compared  with  some  reasons  for  failure. 


154  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

She  rather  hoped  he  did  drink,  since  he  had  to  be 
explained  in  some  way. 

He  seemed  perfectly  sober,  as  he  started  the  car, 
whirled  around  a  sharp  corner,  and  shot  down  the 
steep  hill.  And  he  could  drive  a  car — even  in  a 
Ford,  one  could  tell  that. 

Mr.  Bonner  had  chosen  the  front  seat  so  Jean, 
sitting  behind  the  driver,  could  study  only  the  back, 
and  occasionally  the  profile,  of  the  creature. 

The  back  was  not  objectionable.  Neither  was  the 
profile.  Nothing  classic,  of  course,  but,  for  a  handy 
man — well,  there  was  something  rather  good  about 
the  way  the  head  was  set  upon  the  broad  shoulders, 
and  the  chin  had  a  clean-cut,  determined  look.  A 
nondescript  nose,  if  one  could  judge  from  a  side  view, 
and  an  over-large  mouth  with  a  trick  of  smiling. 

His  collar  was  clean  and  he  had  shaved  carefully 
but  he  was  anxious  to  make  a  good  first  impression. 
Probably  when  he  settled  down  to  work  he  would 
not  be  so  particular.  Still  she  had  to  admit  tc 
herself  that  he  was  not  so  bad  as  her  fancy  had 
painted  him — not  so  bad  to  look  at.  The  inside  of 
the  platter  might  be  a  fright  and  as  for  his  manners 
— the  very  fact  that  they  were  good  was  against 
him.  It  testified  to  wasted  opportunities  and  vital 
failings.  The  man  must  have  had  some  education 
and  training  and  he  looked  strong  and  intelligent 


HOW   COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  155 

enough.  Nothing  but  utter  laziness  or  incorrigibly 
bad  habits  could  account  for  his  being  willing  to 
take  such  a  position  as  the  Bonners  had  offered. 

With  a  rattling  and  squeaking,  but  with  irre- 
pressible enthusiasm,  the  little  car  scrambled  up  hill 
and  down.  The  narrow  country  road  apparently 
climbed  steep  hills  only  for  the  fun  of  rolling  down 
from  them,  but  the  roll  was  always  a  little  shorter 
than  the  climb,  and  each  hilltop  was  higher  than 
the  last. 

Along  the  way  were  farms — not  the  farms  of 
Jean's  dreams.  Most  of  the  houses  were  sadly  in 
need  of  repair  and  paint,  most  of  the  yards  needed 
cleaning  up,  most  of  the  outbuildings  were  frankly 
tottering  to  a  fall,  most  of  the  fields  were  poorly 
cultivated,  most  of  the  stone  walls  were  gradually 
tumbling  down;  but  on  the  right  of  the  road  the 
hills  ran  down  to  the  river,  and  on  the  left  they 
climbed  to  the  sky — and  over  them,  right  and  left, 
surged  the  spring.  In  such  a  world  the  general 
dilapidation  seemed  not  so  much  shiftlessness  as 
abandon.  Why  should  a  farm  be  tidy  and  self- 
respecting  and  profitable,  when  it  had  but  to  stretch 
itself  out  in  the  sunshine  and  let  a  tide  of  leaf  and 
blossom  flow  over  it  and  listen  to  the  voices  of 
running  brooks  and  smell  the  fragrance  of  green 
growing  things  and  feel  cool  cloud  shadows  drifting 


156  HOTV  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

across  its  face  and  harbour  friendly  furry  and 
feathered  folk?  Why  should  a  house  be  painted  and 
shingled  when  flowering  shrubs  cuddled  close  to  it, 
and  fruit  trees  shook  blossom  petals  against  the 
broken  window  panes,  and -through  those  broken 
panes  the  dwellers  in  the  house  could  look  out  into 
paradise? 

The  Agricultural  Department  might  not  be  in 
sympathy  with  such  farm  philosophy  but  the  vaga- 
bond in  Jean's  soul  thrilled  to  it,  and  she  straightway 
set  about  reconstructing  the  farm  she  was  to  own. 
In  its  finished  state  it  would  be  much  as  she  had 
pictured  it;  but  when,  on  some  lucky  day,  she  would 
meet  it  on  a  hilltop,  it  would  be  cheerfully  disreput- 
able— a  place  of  gray  clapboards  and  overgrown 
shrubbery,  untidy  hedgerows  and  rough  pastures. 
She  would  take  it  to  her  heart  just  so,  and  she  would 
tidy  it  up  gently,  slowly,  prayerfully,  doing  no  vio- 
lence to  its  finer  feelings,  stopping  short  of  Philis- 
tinism. 

Mrs.  Bonner  interrupted  her  planning  by  reach- 
ing out  and  squeezing  her  hand. 

"Isn't  it  gloriously  irresponsible?"  the  little  gray 
lady  said  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "Nothing  has 
to  stop  on  the  rear  side  of  the  street  or  the  far  side, 
and  you  don't  have  to  pay  as  you  enter,  and  you  can 
do  as  you  please  with  the  garbage,  and  you  can  sit 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  157 


down  anywhere  and  feel  like  the  psalms,  without 
being  run  over  or  run  in.  I  hate  rules  and  regula- 
tions. There  are  things  no  fellow  can  do.  You 
have  to  accept  that  law  anywhere,  but  living  in  a 
city — Jean,  why  do  we  live  in  cities?" 

"We  don't — not  in  summer  time." 

The  answer  was  confident,  final.  Jean  was  settled 
in  the  shabby  gray  house  on  her  Farm  O'  Dreams. 

There  came  a  time  when  there  were  no  more  hills 
to  climb  and  the  road  ran  level  but  still  inconsequent 
along  a  narrow  neck  of  land  set  high  between  two 
rivers.  Little,  straggling  farms  fringed  the  road  and 
here  the  farmhouses  showed  promise  of  forsaking 
their  shiftless  ways  and  becoming  reformed  char- 
acters. There  were  signs  of  industry  and  thrift 
grafted  on  the  wreckage  of  what  must  have  been  a 
prosperous  little  farming  community  in  the  days  of 
sturdy  pioneering;  but  the  cultivated  fields  were 
narrow  and  beyond  them,  the  land  on  each  side  of 
the  road  fell  away  sharply — on  the  west  plunging 
down  steep  cliffs  to  the  Connecticut  River,  on  the 
east  sinking  into  a  narrow,  wooded  valley  where 
here  and  there  a  thread  of  silver  water  glinted 
through  the  treetops.  Beyond  the  broad  river  and 
the  narrow  one,  line  upon  line  of  blue  hills  mounted 
to  meet  the  horizon,  the  farthest  fading  almost  im- 
perceptibly into  the  sky. 


158  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Two  miles  of  this  upland  flight  and  then  the  end 
of  the  road.  Jean  saw  the  white  house,  the  thick 
clustering  maples,  the  lilac  bushes  leaning  over  the 
white  picket  fence. 

The  car  stopped  gently  on  the  triangle  of  green- 
sward where  the  road  turned  back  upon  itself. 

"This,"  said  Mrs.  Bonner,  with  a  throb  of  con- 
tent in  her  voice,  "is  home." 

The  handy  man  lifted  the  little  gray  lady  from 
the  car.  She  smiled  into  his  face  and  gave  his  arm 
a  friendly  pat  as  he  set  her  down,  and  said : 

"I  think  you  are  going  to  take  very  good  care  of 
us,  Edward,"  she  said  confidingly.  "You  aren't  at 
all  like  Oscar — or  Milton." 

He  had  turned  to  the  assistance  of  the  cook.  All 
the  way  over  from  the  station  he  had  been  thinking 
of  the  moment  when  he  could  look  fairly  into  her 
face,  touch  her  hand,  perhaps  even — for  one  brief 
moment — feel  her  lean  upon  him;  but  he  had  mis- 
calculated. The  cook  climbed  out  of  the  car  on  the 
side  opposite  him,  frostily  took  the  umbrellas  and 
the  smallest  bag  from  him,  and  went  up  the  flagged 
walk  to  the  house  without  so  much  as  looking  at  him. 
So  far  as  she  was  concerned  he  was  a  handy  man 
pure  and  simple.  Let  him  go  ahead  and  be  handy. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned,"  said  Teddy  Burton— but 
it  wasn't  really  so  bad  as  that. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  159 

When  he  had  disposed  of  the  hand  luggage  he  put 
the  car  away  and  then  came  back  to  the  house  but 
he  was  not  needed.  In  his  mistaken  zeal  he  had 
made  everything  ready  for  the  family.  Fires 
were  laid  for  lighting,  on  the  hearths  and  in  the 
kitchen  stove.  There  was  water  in  the  pails,  there 
was  wood  in  the  wood  box,  there  was  ice  in  the 
refrigerator. 

Not  the  smallest  shadow  of  an  excuse  did  he  have 
for  lingering  in  the  kitchen  or  following  the  maid 
about  the  house  and,  after  futile  offers  of  assistance, 
politely  but  convincingly  declined,  he  wandered  out 
to  the  barn,  seated  himself  on  an  empty  grain  bin 
and  stared  scornfully  at  the  humble  but  willing  motor 
car  that  was  his  special  charge.  His  first  intro- 
duction to  it  had  been  a  blow  and  only  vivid  remem- 
brance of  a  girl's  face  had  reconciled  him  to  his  fate. 
If  Jacob  had  been  used  to  a  60-horse-power  F.  I.  A.  T. 
and  Rachel's  father  had  pinned  him  down  to  seven 
years  of  driving  a  Ford,  more  tribes  would  probably 
have  been  lost  to  Israel  than  history  records.  But 
after  the  first  shock,  Teddy's  heart  warmed  to  the 
thing. 

It  reminded  him  of  a  mongrel  pup  he  had  once 
rescued  from  a  tin  can  and  a  gang  of  small  hood- 
lums, and  taken  home  with  him — such  a  plebeian, 
unbeautiful  pup  but  so  pathetically  devoted,  so  eager 


160  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

to  make  up  for  his  lack  of  beauty  by  faithful  service! 
Teddy  had  learned  to  love  that  pup. 

Three  days  of  following  Connecticut  back  roads 
had  almost  persuaded  him  that  he  might  learn  to 
love  a  Ford  car. 

"Mabel,"  he  said  now,  glad  of  a  mute  but  loyal 
confidante,  "my  prophetic  soul  tells  me  that  the 
going  isn't  likely  to  be  good." 

He  drummed  his  heels  against  the  bin  for  a  while, 
looking  thoughtful  and  slightly  depressed.  Then  he 
slid  to  the  floor,  straightened  his  tie,  squared  his 
shoulders,  and  grinned  cheerfully. 

"The  fair  sex,  Mabel,"  he  said,  giving  the  car 
a  friendly  slap  as  he  passed  it,  "makes  us  burn  a  lot 
of  gas,  and  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go  into  low,  but  I'm 
going  to  keep  chugging  right  along." 

For  the  moment,  his  chugging  carried  him  toward 
the  vegetable  garden  and  there  he  found  Mrs.  Bonner 
and  her  cook.  Mrs.  Bonner's  face  was  flushed  with 
excitement,  her  gray  hair  waving  wildly  in  the 
breeze. 

"Edward!"  she  cried.  "Something's  coming  up! 
Quite  a  lot  of  things  are  coming  up." 

Teddy  looked  at  the  little  green  heads  pushing 
up  through  the  brown  earth. 

"Peas  and  beets  and  lettuce,"  he  announced. 
His  tone  was  tolerant  but  not  enthusiastic.  "All 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  161 

in  spots  and  bunches.  What'd  you  expect  in  lumpy 
scil  like  that  with  good-sized  boulders  scattered 
through  it?"  he  said  critically. 

"Tubbs  always  ploughs  and  starts  the  garden  for 
me,"  Mrs.  Bonner  explained.  "He's  quite  old  and 
he  isn't  very  scientific  but  it  is  something  to  have 
peas  and  beets  and  lettuce  even  in  bunches." 

"To-morrow,"  said  her  handy  man  impressively, 
"I'll  take  a  fall  out  of  that  garden.  I  suppose  you 
have  bone  meal  and  wood  ashes  and  well-rotted 
stable  manure  and  a  compost  heap  stowed  away 
somewhere."  He  spoke  lightly,  in  a  matter-of-fact, 
offhand  way. 

Mrs.  Bonner 's  expression  was  compounded  im- 
partially of  admiration  and  consternation.  "You 
sound  like  a  garden  book,"  she  said. 

Of  course  he  did.  All  of  the  gardens  in  the  books 
he  had  bought  before  leaving  town  began  with  large 
quantities  of  bone  meal  and  wood  ashes  and  well- 
rotted  stable  manure  and  compost. 

"But  we  haven't  any  of  those  things,"  his  employer 
confessed  guiltily.  "Tubbs  has  no  opinion  at  all  of 
any  fertilizer  except  stable  manure  and  you  might  as 
well  try  to  buy  pigeon-blood  rubies  as  stable  manure 
around  here,  and  a  compost  heap  always  sounded 
as  if  it  would  be  so  messy,  even  if  one  did  plant  nas- 
turtiums or  squashes  or  things  over  it.  Some  of  the 


162  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

garden  books  tell  you  to  do  that,  but  I  can't  seem  to 
feel  that  I'd  relish  squashes  raised  on  a  compost  heap, 
would  you?" 

"What's  a  compost  heap?"  Jean  inquired. 

"Rot,"  explained  the  handy  man  tersely. 

She  turned  away  from  him  in  profound  disgust. 
A  very  low  person!  There  must  be  some  polite  way 
of  explaining  a  compost  heap,  and  a  man  might  just 
as  well  say  fertilizer  as  rotted  stable  manure.  Of 
course  one  did  talk  about  rotten  luck  and  rotten 
tennis  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  but  that  was  dif- 
ferent. Luck  and  tennis  weren't  actually  decayed 
— though  her  tennis  was  in  a  fair  way  to  decay;  she 
probably  would  not  have  a  game  all  summer. 

A  twinge  of  regret  ran  through  her  at  the  thought. 
She  had  a  sudden  vision  of  smooth  courts  under  a 
blue  sky,  of  white-flannelled  players,  of  wide  shady 
verandahs,  of  well-trained  servants  carrying  trays  on 
which  ice  tinkled  merrily  against  glasses,  of  a  world 
where  luxury  and  ease  and  irresponsible  gayety  were 
the  natural  way  of  living,  and  she  was  homesick — 
miserably,  unheroically  homesick. 

She  wanted  some  one  to  lift  all  the  responsibilities 
from  her  shoulders.  She  wanted  to  wear  French 
frocks,  and  spend  money  with  both  hands,  and  lie 
abed  mornings,  and  flirt  and  frivol,  and  be  the  most 
parasitical  kind  of  a  parasite  known  to  biology. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  163 

"Jean,"  Mrs.  Bonner  had  followed  her  and  slipped 
0,  hand  through  her  arm.  "I  think  if  you  would 
inake  us  some  of  those  nice  biscuits  for  supper — 
the  people  in  the  little  house  over  there  on  the  hill 
keep  bees — Edward  could  run  over,  and  Rufus  loves 
biscuit  and  honey." 

Mrs.  Bonner 's  cook  laughed  helplessly.  She  was 
not  a  parasite.  She  was  that  thing  for  which  fem- 
inism clamoured.  She  was  economically  independ- 
ent. 

"Now  am  I  in  Arcady,"  she  quoted  as  she  went 
kitchen  ward.  "When  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a 
better  place." 

But  she  did  not  altogether  mean  it.  There  was  a 
satisfaction  in  making  good  biscuits  and  seeing  Mr. 
Bonner' s  seraphic  smile  as  he  ate  six  of  them. 

The  handy  man  did  not  come  to  his  supper  until 
he  was  called — and  he  came  perilously  near  not  being 
called.  The  cook  could  not  make  up  her  mind  how 
to  call  him. 

If  only  she  could  have  gone  out  on  the  back  porch 
and  called  "Jones "I  But  his  name  was  not  Jones; 
it  was  Burton.  Mrs.  Bonner  had  told  her  that; 
and,  for  some  reason  whose  psychology  she  did  not 
attempt  to  unravel,  while  it  would  have  been  quite 
possible  for  her  to  have  called  him  "Jones"  it  seemed 
out  of  the  question  to  call  him  Burton.  There  re- 


164  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

mained  "Edward";  but,  while  Edward  was  a  horrid 
name  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  call  him  a  horrid 
name,  Edward  argued  a  certain  degree  of  familiarity. 
"Mr.  Burton"  would  be  attaching  undue  importance 
to  the  person.  To  shout  "hey,  there!"  would  be 
undignified. 

She  allowed  the  biscuits  to  cool  while  she  debated ; 
and,  finally,  she  settled  the  matter  by  going  to  the 
end  of  the  back  porch  and  shouting:  "Sup-per!" 
into  empty  space.  It  sounded  silly  but  Edward 
came,  at  once — alert,  immaculately  washed  and 
brushed,  smiling. 

The  ceiling  of  the  old  kitchen  was  so  low  that  he 
had  to  stoop  a  little  as  he  came  through  the  door; 
and,  when  he  straightened  up,  he  looked -so  large  and 
so  hungry  that  Jean  involuntarily  counted  her  bis- 
cuits. 

There  was  only  one  plate  laid  on  the  kitchen 
table.  If  the  man  noticed  anything  odd  about  the 
fact,  he  did  not,  even  by  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash, 
show  it. 

Jean  waited  upon  him  painstakingly  but  in  frosty 
silence.  If  he  had  had  the  remotest  idea  of  treating 
his  fellow  servant  with  undue  familiarity,  that  idea 
must  have  been  frozen  at  its  source  but  the  frigid 
temperature  apparently  affected  neither  his  cheer- 
fulness nor  his  appetite.  He  did  not  speak  to  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  165 

cook  except  to  thank  her  when  she  passed  him  some- 
thing but  he  ate  an  astonishing  amount  and  seemed 
quite  content — thereby  moving  the  aforesaid  cook 
to  hot  and  wholly  inconsistent  resentment.  Natur- 
ally she  rejoiced  in  the  success  of  her  system,  but  she 
had  not  been  accustomed  to  seeing  young  men,  under 
the  ban  of  her  disapproval,  bear  up  so  cheerfully  and 
display  such  amazing  appetites.  Even  the  infer- 
ential tribute  to  her  cooking  could  not  soothe  her 
vanity. 

After  supper  Edward  brought  in  wood  for  the 
night,  filled  the  water  pails.  He  whistled  as  he  came 
from  the  well — not  because  he  felt  like  whistling 
but  just  to  show  himself  that  his  sporting  blood  was 
as  good  for  a  siege  as  for  a  skirmish — and  as  he 
whistled  he  wondered  whether  the  Girl  was  prej- 
udiced against  his  sex  or  his  face.  That  he  had  not 
made  a  hit  with  her  was,  he  admitted  ruefully  to 
himself,  sufficiently  obvious;  but  a  poor  start  did 
not  mean  much  where  girls  were  concerned — it  was 
the  finish  that  counted.  Hadn't  some  old  duffer 
said  that  it  was  best  to  begin  with  a  little  aversion? 
Well,  anyway,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  a 
stiff  upper  lip  and  play  the  game.  No  girl  cared 
about  a  man  who  would  sit  up  on  his  hind  legs  and 
beg. 

The  whistling  ended  only  at  the  kitchen  door,  and 


166  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

the  handy  man's  cheerful  face  indicated  that  the 
tune  was  suppressed  then  merely  out  of  courtesy. 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you?"  he 
asked  politely  when  he  had  set  the  brimming  pails 
upon  the  table. 

There  was  nothing. 

Mrs.  Bonner  entered  the  kitchen  just  as  he  was 
leaving  it  and  the  light  that  flashed  into  his  eyes,  the 
smile  on  his  lips  as  he  stopped  and  looked  down  at 
her,  gave  Jean  an  uncomfortable  feeling.  He  was 
such  a  big  boy,  and  after  all,  he  was  not  to  blame  for 
being  a  blot  on  her  landscape.  He  had  been  hired 
and  he  couldn't  know  that  his  employer's  cook  would 
detest  him.  Probably  the  ordinary  cook  would 
have  adored  him.  Evidently  he  had  lost  his  heart 
to  the  little  gray  lady.  Everybody  loved  her.  She 
was  so  kindly  and  uncritical  and  ready  to  be  friends. 

Of  course  if  Edward  drank But  even  then — 

sometimes  they  inherited  it,  and  he  wras  among 
strangers.  And  he  must  have  been  used  to  better 
things.  His  manners  proved  that,  and  the  way  he 
talked.  Of  course  he  was  slangy — all  the  college 
Jmen  were  slangy — but  his  grammar  was  all  right. 
Yes,  he  had  been  used  to  better  things,  and  what- 
ever he  had  done  to  ruin  his  chances,  he  needed 
friends.  Everybody  needed  friends. 

"Edward,"    said    the    cook,    when    her    mistress 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  167 

started  back  toward  the  front  of  the  house,  "I  won- 
der if  you  could  set  my  alarm  clock  for  me  before 
you  go  out?" 

Her  voice  registered  "fair  and  warmer,"  and  she 
smiled  at  him  as  she  spoke. 

Never  was  an  alarm  clock  wound  and  set  with 
more  alacrity — with  more  fervour.  That  Jean  had 
attended  to  the  thing  herself  for  three  months  did 
not  affect  the  earnestness  of  her  gratitude.  She 
thanked  him  very  prettily,  took  the  clock  from  him, 
murmured  a  good-night  and  disappeared  up  the  back 
stairs. 

"Oh,  my  suffering  Aunt  Jemima!"  exclaimed  the 
astonished  young  man  who  was  left  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  kitchen. 


CHAPTER  X 

"MAN!" 

Teddy  Burton  looked  up  from  the  lima  beans  he 
was  planting  and  saw  a  small  boy  and  a  smaller  girl. 
The  boy  was  thin  and  freckled.  His  cap  was  pushed 
back  past  a  most  refractory  cowlick  in  a  thick  crop 
of  stiff,  brown  hair.  His  shirt  was  not  clean  and  one 
of  his  knees  showed  brown  through  a  big  hole  in  his 
stockings,  but  the  small,  bright  brown  eyes  in  the 
homely  face  held  a  most  engaging  twinkle  and  the 
boy's  mouth  was  peculiarly  sweet — a  sensitive,  char-, 
acterful  mouth,  whose  thin,  well-modelled  lips  turned 
up  slightly  at  the  corners  and,  like  the  eyes,  had 
a  hint  of  amusement,  even  when,  as  now,  the  rest 
of  the  face  was  grave. 

Involuntarily,  Teddy  smiled  into  the  twinkling 
eyes.  They  kept  on  twinkling  but  declined  to  smile. 
Their  owner  was  evidently  not  given  to  snap-shot 
judgments. 

The  small  girl  was  different.  She  not  only  re- 
turned the  smile  that  Teddy  transferred  to  her. 
She  added  to  it,  gave  it  back  with  interest,  dimpled 

168 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  169 

and  beamed  and  fairly  gurgled  response.  She  was 
little  and  plump  and  great-eyed.  A  pink  sunbonnet 
hung  down  her  back  by  strings  knotted  hard  under 
a  chubby  chin  and  left  uncovered  a  mop  of  short, 
shining  yellow  curls.  Sun  and  wind  had  warmed  her 
skin  to  the  clear  brown  that  is  almost  amber  and 
the  red  of  a  ripening  peach.  Her  features  were  care- 
lessly sketched.  What  she  would  be  at  twenty  no 
one  could  prophesy,  but  at  five  she  was  adorable 
and  the  woman  in  her  knew  it. 

"I'm  Molly,"  she  announced.  Her  voice  had  a 
funny,  fat  little  chuckle  in  it  that  would  have  moved 
a  more  serious  man  than  Teddy  Burton  to  laughter 
and,  when  he  laughed  she  joined  in.  She  was  al- 
ways willing  to  join  in  a  laugh;  but  when  it  was  over, 
she  went  back  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"Who's  you,  man?"  she  asked. 

"Shut  up,  Molly.  'Tain't  polite  to  ask  ques- 
tions," admonished  the  boy. 

"  Ve  man  wants  me  to  know,"  she  insisted.  Molly 
was  absolutely,  unshakably  sure  of  the  world's  good 
will. 

"I'm  Teddy  Burton,"  said  the  man. 

"Ted-dee — Ted-dee,"  she  crooned  and,  coming 
close,  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  her  most  in- 
gratiating smile.  "I  fink  you're  nice,  Ted-dee," 
she  admitted  shamelessly.  "Can  you  mik?" 


170  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"'Milk'  she  means,"  the  boy  explained.  "She's 
plumb  dotty  about  milking  just  now.  She's  always 
plumb  dotty  about  something." 

"Jimmy  lets  me,"  she  boasted.  "Jimmy  lets  me 
do  everyfing.  Jimmy's  awful  good.  He  says,  I 
could  ride  in  a  mobile  if  anybody  asked  would  I." 

"I  never!"  Jimmy's  face  was  scandalized  but 
Teddy  rose  to  the  bait. 

"Well  would  you?"  he  asked. 

She  hopped  up  and  down  excitedly  but  pressed  her 
advantage. 

"An'  Jimmy?" 

"Yes,  of  course — Jimmy." 

"  Vere ! "  she  said  triumphantly.     "  He  lets  me  too." 

"Everybody  lets  you."  Jimmy  made  an  effort  to 
be  sternly  disapproving.  "That's  what's  the  matter 
with  you." 

"Matter  wiv  me,"  she  echoed  cheerfully. 

Having  got  what  she  wanted,  the  young  woman, 
true  to  sex,  lost  interest  and  trotted  up  toward 
the  house,  but  Jimmy  lingered.  He  watched  the 
little  figure  until  the  pink  sunbonnet  disappeared 
through  the  kitchen  door  then  turned  back  to  the  man 
who  was  going  on  with  his  gardening. 

"  Can't  take  your  eye  off  her,"  he  explained.  "  You 
wouldn't  think  anything  could  happen  to  her  be- 
tween here  and  the  house — but  it  could.  All  sorts 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  171 

of  things  could  happen.  You  never  saw  anything 
like  that  kid.  She  just  sort  of  draws  accidents — 
ain't  afraid  of  anything,  you  know;  and  awful  curious, 
and  always  goes  right  ahead  gettin5  acquainted  and 
findin'  out  about  things,  and  I  tell  you  she  keeps  a 
fellow  busy." 

His  tone  was  apologetic  but  pride  shone  bright 
in  his  face.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood  watching 
the  planting  process  with  evident  concern. 

"Say,"  he  remarked  at  last,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
distant  hills,  his  voice  elaborately  casual,  "up  here 
we  mostly  plant  lima  beans  eye-side  down." 

Teddy  stopped  work,  studied  the  bean  in  his  hand 
and  shook  his  head. 

"That  isn't  logic,  son.  The  sprout  must  grow 
out  of  the  eye  and  the  sprout  must  grow  upward. 
There'd  be  no  sense  in  heading  it  down." 

Jimmy  stood  firm. 

"Maybe  it  ain't  logic,"  he  conceded,  "but  it's 
beans.  They  turn  over."  Mr.  Bonner's  gardener 
looked  into  the  shrewd  little  face  and  sacrificed  theory 
to  experience. 

"James,  my  boy,"  he  said,  as  he  went  back  along 
his  line  turning  the  beans  eye  downward,  "many 
things  that  are  not  logic  are  beans." 

The  two  were  good  friends  before  the  planting 
ended.  As  Jimmy  explained  to  Mrs.  Morley  later  in 


172  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

the  day,  "He  ain't  one  of  those  conceited  city 
folk  that  knows  it  all,  and  he  ain't  one  of  those 
grown-up  men  that  thinks  boys  ain't  got  horse 
sense.  He  jollies  you  a  lot  but  he  don't  exactly 
laugh  at  you;  the  way  that  makes  a  fellow  hot.  He 
just  laughs  as  if  both  of  you  was  in  the  joke  an'  when 
he  ain't  jollyin'  he  treats  you  sort  of  man  to  man. 
Shows  you  about  the  car  and  lets  you  oil  things  and 
asks  you  about  roads." 

"Well,  my  sakes,  Jim" — Mrs.  Morley  was  in- 
terested but  apprehensive — "don't  you  get  crazy 
over  that  new  man  and  go  trapping  him  around 
when  Molly  lets  go  of  you  for  a  minute.  You  don't 
have  any  too  much  time  now." 

"I  get  up  lots  earlier."  The  boy's  face  flushed 
hotly  and  the  woman  hastened  to  smooth  his  ruffled 
conscience. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  get  the  chores  done  all  right  and  if 
you  want  the  bother  of  Molly,  why  that's  your  busi- 
ness. Her  mother  helps  me  enough  to  offset  your 
taking  care  of  the  mite  even  if  you  did  neglect  things 
—which  you  don't,"  she  added  quickly — "but  it 
don't  seem  natural  for  a  boy  like  you  to  get  up 
at  four  so  as  to  have  his  work  done  before  the  baby's 
ready  to  start  in  on  her  day.  You  just  let  her  im- 
pose on  you,  Jim." 

The  boy  did  not  meet  her  eyes.     He  was  burrowing 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  173 

in  the  ground  with  one  toe  and  apparently  absorbed 
in  the  hole  he  was  making.  Suddenly  he  looked  up. 
His  eyes  were  not  twinkling.  They  were  shining 
and  the  sweetness  of  his  mouth  made  the  freckled 
face  forget  to  be  homely. 

"You  see  there  ain't  ever  been  anybody,"  he  ex- 
plained, "and  she's  so  awful  kind  of  little  an'  sweet — 
an'  lovin'." 

Mrs.  Morley's  own  eyes  grew  misty  behind  her 
glasses. 

"You  come  in  and  have  some  fresh  cookies,  Jim," 
she  said  hastily.  Sympathy,  with  Mrs.  Morley,. 
always  took  the  form  of  proffered  food. 

When  a  little  later  she  came  into  the  sitting-room 
where  Molly's  mother  and  Jean  Mackaye — who  had 
walked  home  with  Jimmy  and  the  baby — sat  talk- 
ing, she  looked  gratified. 

"That  boy  can  eat  more  cookies  than  any  two 
people  his  size  I  ever  knew,"  she  announced  happily. 
"I  don't  know  as  I  ever  saw  a  heartier  appetite 
but  he  don't  seem  to  put  on  flesh.  I'm  downright 
set  on  fattening  him  up.  It's  a  slur  on  anybody's 
cooking  to  have  folks  around  looking  skinny.  But, 
if  I  do  say  it,  nobody  stays  skinny  here.  Look  at 
Susan.  You  could  just  about  see  through  her  when 
she  came  but  hasn't  she  plumped  up?  And  Molly's 
fat  as  butter.  I  guess  I'll  go  out  and  whip  up  a  maple 


174  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

custard  for  supper.  Jim's  crazy  about  maple 
custard." 

She  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen  and  Susan  shook 
her  head,  laughing. 

"It's  no  use.  You  simply  can't  keep  her  out  of 
that  kitchen.  I  help  her  do  up  the  work  and  I  think 
she  can  have  all  afternoon  to  sit  down  and  rest  or  go 
visiting,  and  the  first  thing  I  know  she's  back  in  the 
kitchen  stirring  up  something.  If  it  isn't  for  us,  it's 
a  bowl  of  broth  for  Mrs.  Meyers  that's  sick — down 
the  hill  there;  she's  got  every  kind  of  a  disease  you 
ever  heard  of.  Or  it's  a  tea  cake  for  old  Mr.  Anderson, 
that  says  nobody  can  make  the  right  kind  of  tea  cake 
with  raisins  in  it  except  her;  or  she  just  cuts  up  some 
fresh  pork  and  mixes  a  few  sausages  to  send  to  the 
Marellis  because  they  like  her  sausage  meat  better 
than  any  they  can  buy.  If  she  can't  think  of  any- 
thing else,  she  cooks  a  mess  of  scraps  for  the  dog  or 
a  warm  mash  for  the  cow.  Honestly,  the  dog,  the 
cow,  the  pig,  and  everything  on  the  place  except  Jim, 
are  so  fat  they'd  roll  one  way  as  quick  as  another." 

"She's  thin  enough  herself,"  Jean  said. 

"That's  just  it.  She  worries  so  about  feeding 
other  people  that  she  doesn't  eat  much  of  anything 
herself  and  what  she  does  eat  hurts  her — ner- 
vous, you  know,  and  tired  and  sick  of  fussing  over 
food  and  smelling  it  and  tasting  it  to  see  if  it's 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  175 

right.  Since  I've  been  feeling  better  I've  done  every 
blessed  thing  I  could  to  make  her  take  care  of  herself, 
but  it  isn't  a  bit  of  use,  and  now  she'll  have  board- 
ers coming.  She  always  takes  two  or  three  of  them 
in  the  summer.  Goodness  knows  how  she  does  it.  I 
sort  of  dread  the  boarders.  It's  been  so  nice,  just 
Molly  and  Jimmy  and  Mrs.  Morley  and  me — and 
neighbours  running  in.  I  don't  ever  want  to  go  back 
to  town.  I'd  ought  to  be  at  work  now  only  Mrs. 
Bonner  and  the  doctor  won't  let  me;  but  when  I  do, 
I'm  going  to  get  a  place  up  here.  Folks  won't  paj 
high  but  Molly'd  be  with  me  and  where  it's  healthy 
and  nobody  that  knows  about — him." 

"Miss  Mackaye,  couldn't  you  relish  some  fresh 
cookies  and  a  cup  of  tea?"  called  Mrs.  Morley  from 
the  kitchen. 

Miss  Mackaye  could  not,  but  she  was  not  allowed 
to  go  home  without  a  plate  of  the  cookies  for  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bonner's  tea — "and  for  the  young  man,"  Mrs. 
Morley  added.  "I  haven't  seen  him,  except  just 
going  by  when  you  came  yesterday.  He's  got  an 
awful  nice  face  and  Jim's  all  taken  up  with  him.  It'll 
be  real  nice  for  you  to  have  young  company  right  in 
the  house,  won't  it? 

"I  wonder  if  he  likes  pie.  Most  men  folks  think 
so  much  of  pie.  The  hired  man  I  had  before  Jim 
came  would  sit  down  and  eat  a  whole  half  before  he'd 


17C  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

go  up  to  bed — never  hurt  him  a  bit  either.  My  pie 
crust  wouldn't  hurt  a  baby.  You  bring  the  young 
man  up  some  evening  and  I'll  let  him  try  one  of  my 
custard  pies.  Most  men  folks  are  partial  to  custard 
pie.  I'll  give  you  my  recipe,  Miss  Mackaye.  It's  just 
as  well  for  girls  to  practise  on  what  men  like  specially. 
Married  life  needs  things  like  that  to  help  over.  Mr. 
Morley  was  tempery  but  I  could  usually  manage 
him  with  custard  pie — better  than  with  'most  any- 
thing, unless  it  was  chicken  fricassee.  You  never 
saw  such  a  man  for  chicken  gravy — if  it  was  made 
right." 

Jean  went  away  down  the  road  pondering  over  men 
and  their  ways.  There  was  something  that  appealed 
to  her  about  managing  a  man  with  custard  pie  and 
chicken  gravy;  but  Mr.  Bonner  was  not  a  fair  test. 
One  could  manage  Mr.  Bonner  with  sardines  and 
crackers,  though  he  liked  good  food  if  his  attention 
was  called  to  it. 

She  set  the  kitchen  table  for  two  that  evening. 

Since  the  handy  man  was  not  actually  objection- 
able there  was  no  point  in  allowing  her  own  meals  to 
spoil  while  he  ate  his  and  in  delaying  her  work. 

She  would  not  encourage  him  too  much  but  it 
would  be  idiotic  to  establish  a  feud  just  because  the 
man  had  accepted  a  job  that  was  offered  to  him,  and 
so,  though  she  hated  the  sight  of  him,  she  would 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  177 

treat  him  civilly,  giving  her  civility  a  little  skim  of 
ice  around  its  edges. 

Edward  accepted  the  table  for  two  as  he  had  ac- 
cepted the  table  for  one — without  comment  and  with 
unruffled  serenity.  He  made  no  conversational  over- 
tures and  silence  hung  heavily  in  the  air  until  Jean 
could  stand  it  no  longer  and  asked  a  carefully  indif- 
ferent question  about  the  garden.  He  answered 
fully  but  with  an  indifference  as  careful  as  her  own  and 
the  conversation  would  have  dropped  back  into  the 
gulf  of  silence  whence  it  had  sprung  if  Jean  had  not 
brought  Molly  to  its  rescue. 

"Molly  says  you  are  going  to  take  her  'mobiling/' 
she  said;  and,  because  it  was  impossible  to  think  of 
Molly,  much  less  to  speak  of  her  without  smiling,  she 
smiled  as  she  spoke.  The  overture  was  encouraging, 
almost  friendly,  and  she  realized  it;  but  one  could  not 
sit  opposite  a  man  for  hours  without  interesting  him 
at  all. 

Teddy  laughed  outright.  The  cook's  smile  might 
do  Molly  justice  but  his  could  not. 

"Of  course  I'm  going  to  take  her  'mobiling.  She 
says  everybody  'lets '  her  and  I'm  willing  to  believe  it. 
She'd  wheedle  a  bird  off  a  branch,  and  as  to  what 

she  does  with  Jimmy .  By  the  way,  is  Jimmy 

her  brother?" 

She  had  brought  it  on  herself.     Never  again  could 


178  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

she  sit  upon  her  mountain  peak,  remote,  unap- 
proachable, austere.  She  might  of  course  retire  to 
the  cold  heights  on  occasion  but  she  had  admitted 
that  she  could  slide  down  and,  in  her  heart  she  was 
glad  to  be  treading  lower  levels.  Climbing  moun- 
tains was  amusing;  but  living  on  them ! 

"Oh  no,  he's  not  her  brother,"  she  explained. 
"He's  only  her  slave.  Molly  and  her  mother  are 
boarding  with  Mrs.  Morley,  and  Jimmy's  doing 
Mrs.  Morley's  chores.  She  got  him  from  the  Or- 
phans' Home.  He's  rather  a  dear,  himself,  I  think." 

"He's  better  than  that,"  amended  Teddy.     "He's 


a  man." 


"Well— if  you  call  that  better —  Her  dim- 
ples had  come  out  of  long  retreat.  She  looked  up  at 
him  from  under  her  sweeping  lashes  in  the  old  way. 
It  was  so  long  since  she  had  talked  to  a  man — a 
young,  good-looking  man — and  habit  is  a  powerful 
thing;  one  slips  back  easily  into  the  channels  it 
has  worn. 

Something  flamed  up  in  the  man's  eyes  and  was 
promptly  sniffed  out — so  promptly  that  Jean  was 
not  at  all  sure  it  had  been  there. 

"Of  course,  if  one  can  be  both  man  and  dear " 

He  said  it  so  lightly  that  while  it  recognized  the 
opening  it  was  coolly  impersonal.  "As  Jimmy  is," 
he  added. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  179 

If  only  she  had  not  been  Mrs.  Bonner's  cook! 
If  only  he  had  not  been  Mr.  Bonner's  handy  man! 
If  only  the  kitchen  had  been  a  conservatory  or  a 
canoe  or  a  rose  arbour!  Jean  sighed  a  little.  The 
iheme  would  have  borne  developing  and,  she  had  a 
feeling  that,  granted  all  the  ifs,  this  Edward  might 
have  played  the  game  nicely.  He  was  not  at  all 
stupid  and  he  was  better  looking  than  she  had 
thought  him  right  at  first.  She  wondered  whether 
she  really  had  seen  that  queer  look  in  his  eyes;  and, 
if  she  had,  what  did  it  mean?  And  she  wondered, 
as  she  had  wondered  times  beyond  number,  what 
could  have  brought  him  to  a  pass  where  he  was 
willing  to  be  handy  man  on  a  New  England  farm. 
There  were  so  many  better  things  a  man  could  do — 
things  that  were  beginnings  of  bigger  things.  There 
was  no  reason  why  a  man  should  bury  himself,  cut 
himself  off  from  his  friends,  work  hard  at  work  that 
held  no  future. 

If  he  had  been  ill,  of  course,  farm  work,  in  the 
open  air  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  but  no  one  could 
accuse  him  of  being  ill.  He  was  aggressively  healthy. 

There  was  no  reason  why  a  man She  began  it 

all  over  again;  no  reason  except  a  disgraceful  one. 
He  might  be  in  hiding  to  escape  the  consequences  of 
something  he  had  done. 

She  made  an  effort  to  fit  the  role  to  him  but  with 


180  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN 

small  success.  He  hadn't  a  hunted  look.  A  more 
care-free  and  unapprehensive  mortal  she  had  never 
seen.  No;  he  wasn't  afraid  of  consequences  but 
he  was  quite  evidently  meeting  them. 

Consequences  of  what?  What  was  the  fatal  weak- 
ness that  had  kept  him  from  making  good?  He  did 
not  look  or  act  like  a  drug  fiend.  He  did  not  look 
or  act  like  a  drunkard.  Still,  he  had  been  under  her 
eyes  only  a  short  time.  Sometimes  drinking  was  a 
periodical  affair,  and  at  his  age  one  would  not  show 
dissipation  readily.  It  must  be  drink — but  he  seemed 
such  a  nice What  a  fool  she  was  to  be  curious ! 

She  rose  hastily  from  the  table,  put  a  stick  of 
wood  in  the  stove,  filled  the  dishpan,  and  set  about 
washing  the  dishes  with  a  vigour  that  suggested 
temper. 

"Jean  Mackaye,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  knocked 
a  thin  tumbler  against  the  edge  of  the  sink  and  broke 
it,  "if  you  are  so  silly  about  men  that  you  can  get 
interested  in  a  hired  man  of  intemperate  habits, 
you'd  better  quit  the  'economically  independent' 
game  and  go  back  to  your  own  crowd — and  marry 
the  first  man  that  proposes.  Probably  he'll  drink 
too,  but  at  least  he'll  have  money  and  social  posi- 
tion." 

The  intemperate  hired  man,  feeling  storm  in  the 
air,  disappeared  from  the  kitchen,  exulting  in  his 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  181 

heart.  The  interlude  had  been  brief.  He  and  his 
lady — his  cook  lady — were  back  at  freezing  point, 
but  she  had  smiled  at  him,  she  had  dimpled  at  him, 
she  had  looked  up  at  him  from  under  her  lashes  as 
if  he  had  been  a  man  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
handy.  And,  he  assured  himself,  he  had  behaved 
extraordinarily  well  under  the  circumstances.  On 
less  provocation,  a  cave  man  would  have  picked  his 
chosen  one  up  and  carried  her  off  to  his  cave.  Civili- 
zation had  cluttered  love  making  a  whole  lot. 

"But  oh,  my  suffering  Aunt  Jemima,  how  she 
smiles  when  she  does  smile,"  he  said,  to  Venus  who 
happened  to  be  the  evening  star,  though  he  was 
ignorant  of  that  auspicious  fact. 

And,  in  order  that  she  might  be  beguiled  into 
smiling  again,  he  trod  very  cautiously  for  a  day  or 
two — so  cautiously  that  his  manner  was  slightly 
frigid.  There  came  a  morning  when  the  cook,  in  a 
friendly  mood,  did  smile  again,  but  even  then  he 
did  not  relax  his  caution — accepted  the  bewildering 
phenomenon  with  outward  calm  and  made  no  re- 
sponse beyond  a  non-committal  cheerfulness. 

So  discreet  was  he  that  Jean  relaxed  her  discre- 
tion, ventured  upon  further  concession,  lapsed  into 
her  natural  good  humour.  It  was  hard  for  her  not 
to  be  friendly  and,  while  one  must  not  under  any 
circumstances  flirt  with  an  intemperate  handy  man, 


182  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

there  was  no  reason  why,  so  long  as  he  was  sober  and 
showed  no  sign  of  misunderstanding,  she  should  not 
grant  him  the  friendliness  she  gave  to  any  chance 
comer. 

So  she  smiled  and  laughed  and  talked  and  jested, 
and  because  he  was  a  man  and  she  was  a  maid  and 
both  were  young  and  the  month  was  May,  she  em- 
broidered the  chance-comer  variety  of  friendliness  a 
bit,  thought  she  was  not  conscious  of  it. 

Teddy  was  conscious  of  it,  conscious  of  it  in  every 
tingling  nerve,  but,  having  learned  wisdom,  he  took 
a  post-graduate  course  in  self-control. 

"Mabel,"  he  said  to  the  car  at  the  end  of  the 
first  week,  "I  rather  think  we've  got  the  carburetter 
adjusted.  Now  unless  we're  darn  fools  enough  to 
tinker  with  it,  we  may  run  along  smoothly  for  a  while, 
but,  old  girl,  there  are  times  when  I  have  to  set  my 
teeth  and  say  the  alphabet  backward  to  keep  from 
tearing  things  wide  open  and  smashing  the  speed 
limit." 

Like  Jean  herself,  Teddy  did  a  good  deal  of  won- 
dering. He  had  known  that  the  girl  was  the  rose 
of  the  world — had  known  that,  the  very  first  mo- 
ment he  saw  her;  and  after  his  evening  with  the 
stars,  he  had  never  for  a  moment  troubled  his  head 
about  the  matter  of  social  caste;  but  he  admitted 
to  himself,  now  and  then,  that  even  in  his  most 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  183 

rhapsodic  moments  he  had  hardly  expected  the 
mould  of  perfection,  on  close  inspection,  to  have 
quite  the  polish  it  showed. 

Sweetness — yes,  of  course;  sweetness  and  goodness 
and  prettiness  and  the  distilled  essence  of  charm. 
Any  nice  girl  from  a  decent  poor  family  might  have 
those — might  even  have  a  fair  smattering  of  educa- 
tion. Girls  of  the  working  classes  were  more  likely 
to  go  through  high  school  than  their  brothers — 
didn't  always  have  to  get  out  to  work  so  early. 
And,  probably,  if  a  girl  was  quick,  and  had  natur- 
ally nice  tastes,  she  might  pick  up  a  lot  of  good  ideas 
of  one  kind  and  another;  but  there  was  something 
about  Jean ;  she  was  so  sure  of  herself,  so  com- 
pletely at  her  ease  with  every  one.  She  had  such 
dainty  ways.  Why,  she  even  ate  beautifully,  though 
eating  was  a  performance  that  ought  ordinarily  to  be 
done  in  private.  And  the  way  she  walked,  the  way 
she  talked !  Yes,  above  all  the  way  she  talked !  Hang 
it  all,  the  girl  might  have  been  born  to  the  purple! 

Now,  how  in  the  name  of  the  seventy-seven  devils 
of  Li  Chu,  did  a  general  housework  girl  happen  to 
be  like  that?  What  sort  of  a  family  did  she  come 
from?  Maybe  her  mother  had  been  a  woman  of 
birth  and  breeding  and  had  married  beneath  her; 

or  perhaps  her  father Some  fellows  did  make 

asses  of  themselves  over  parlour  maids. 


184  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

He  caught  himself  up  short  at  that  point.  Yes; 
and  the  parlour  maids  were  probably  too  good  for 
the  fellows — worlds  too  good  for  them.  He  had 
changed  his  point  of  view  about  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
only,  of  course,  generations  of  education  and  social 

training  and Oh,  what  the  devil  was  a  girl  like 

Jean  Mackaye  doing  in  Mrs.  Bonner's  kitchen? 

She  never  spoke  of  her  family,  of  her  home;  never 
dropped  the  smallest  crumb  of  information  about 
her  early  life;  but  that  might  be  accidental,  not 
deliberate.  There  wasn't  any  reason  why  she  should 
spill  the  story  of  her  life  and  her  real  name  into  the 
sort  of  talk  he  had  always  had  with  her.  Probably 
if  the  conversation  ever  happened  to  drift  around  to 
home  and  mother,  she'd  have  as  much  to  say  as 
any  girl. 

Curiosity  prompted  him  to  strategy. 

On  a  June  evening — when  the  cook  had  been 
more  than  usually  amiable  at  supper,  and,  later,  he 
found  her  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  back  porch,  with 
a  dreamy  softness  blurring  her  usual  brisk  alertness 
— he  dropped  down  beside  her  and  began  a  conver- 
sation that  gradually  took  on  a  reminiscent  flavour. 

By  way  of  the  man  in  the  moon  he  led  up  to  "the 
queer  ideas  kids  have"  and  fell  into  talk  about  his 
own  childhood.  Swapping  memories  of  childhood 
might  throw  some  light  on  his  lady  love's  background 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  185 

and  every  one  liked  to  talk  about  that  sort  of 
thing. 

"Always  believed  the  milky  way  was  the  cow 
heaven  and  that  the  man  in  the  moon  looked  after 
the  cows,"  he  said  lightly.  "Broke  me  all  up  when 
a  fool  Sunday-school  teacher  set  me  right;  told  me 
that  cows  didn't  go  to  heaven — that  nobody  drank 
milk  up  there.  I  wasn't  old  enough  to  realize  she 
hadn't  any  more  inside  information  about  heaven 
than  I  had,  but  I  never  had  much  of  an  opinion  of 
the  place  after  that.  Funny  little  beggar,  I  must 
have  been.  Mother  spoiled  me  more  than  a  bit  and 
I  didn't  have  any  brothers  to  cuff  sense  into  me,  nor 
sisters  to  snub  me." 

Jean  shifted  her  position  so  that  she  could  see  his 
face  in  the  moonlight.  Her  dreaminess  slipped  away 
and  left  her  wide  awake,  keenly  interested,  though 
she  still  leaned  lazily  against  the  verandah  pillar  and 
gave  no  outward  sign  of  her  change  of  mood.  Per- 
vaps  her  curiosity  was  going  to  be  satisfied.  Men 
usually  loved  to  talk  about  themselves  and  this  was 
an  evening  for  expansive  confidences — a  warm,  sweet- 
scented  moon-silvered  summer  evening  with  just  a 
hint  of  loneliness  in  its  hush. 

Human  companionship,  human  sympathy,  are 
good  on  such  a  night. 

"Lonesome  business,  being  an  only  child,"  the 


186  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

girl  said;  but  she  volunteered  no  information  about 
the  number  of  her  own  brothers  and  sisters,  and  the 
man  who  had  waited  hopefully,  took  up  the  burden 
of  reminiscence  again. 

"Oh,  well,  there  are  always  children  to  play  with. 
I  wasn't  lonesome  myself — too  busy  getting  into 
trouble;  a  fellow  can  always  do  that  at  any  age,  if 
life  begins  to  seem  dull;  but  I  suppose  girls  don't  take 
naturally  to  deviltry,  so  they  get  lonesome.  Being 
good  is  lonesome  business,  if  you  ask  me." 

Jean's  lips  curled  a  little,  scornfully,  as  she  looked 
down  at  him.  How  men  did  love  confessing  their  sins 
to  women!  He  was  going  to  tell  her  what  a  wild, 
wicked  young  dare-devil  he  had  been  and  he  would 
add  brilliant  decorative  touches.  They  always  did. 
A  man  rather  fancied  himself  in  a  lurid,  St.  Elmo- 
Luciferian  role  but  he  never  was  willing  to  show 
himself  up  as  a  plain,  ordinary,  bad  lot. 

"Were  you  a  very  bad  small  boy,"  she  prompted. 

The  handy  man  grinned.  "Oh,  only  so-so.  I  did 
my  best,  but  you  have  to  have  either  a  lot  of  imagina- 
tion or  a  lot  of  experience  to  be  sensationally  bad,  you, 
know,  and  the  average  kid  hasn't  either.  Still,  I 
don't  think  I've  much  to  reproach  myself  with,  in  the 
way  of  wasted  opportunity.  Dad  kept  his  strong 
right  arm  in  pretty  good  muscular  condition  up  to  the 
time  when  I  was  past  being  licked.  He's  fallen  off  on 


HOW  COULD   YOU,  JEAN?  187 

his  form  since  then;  but  he's  cultivated  a  mighty  fine, 
forceful  line  of  talk."  The  grin  broadened.  "He 
could  give  Billy  Sunday  cards  and  spades,  when  he 
really  gets  going;  but  I'll  admit  he's  slow  to  anger." 

"Poor  father!"  Jean  reflected  as  she  thought  of 
him.  It  must  be  dreadful  to  have  an  only  son  go 
wrong. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  mother  that  wrestles  with  the 
girl  problem,"  Edward  hazarded. 

"I  can't  remember  my  mother,"  the  girl  said  quietly. 

At  last  she  was  beginning  to  talk  about  herself. 
He  realized  it,  but  forgot  to  be  glad  of  it,  because  he 
was  suddenly  so  very,  very  sorry  for  her.  Plucky 
little  dear,  bucking  the  world  alone,  no  mother  to 
help — not  even  in  the  small  girl  days. 

"That's  hard!"  The  quick  sympathy  in  his  voice 
brought  a  tinge  of  colour  to  Jean's  cheeks.  There 
was  something  extraordinarily  likable  about  him,  she 
admitted  to  herself.  There  often  was  something  ex- 
traordinarily likable  about  ne'er-do-wells. 

"It  would  be  hard  for  anybody,"  he  went  on,  "but 
it's  worse  for  a  girl  than  for  a  boy.  No;  I  don't  know 
that  it  is,  after  all.  A  boy  needs  a  lot  besides  lickings 
and  man  talk.  Girls  don't  have  so  much  inclination 
to  play  the  fool  as  boys  have,  and  then  there  are  all 
kinds  of  influences  to  hold  them  back,  but  a  boy's  just 
got  his  mother.  She's  the  whole  shooting  match  for 


188  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN 

him,  so  far  as  the  spiritual  side  of  him  goes.  Why  the 
only  reason  the  ordinary  boy  has  a  friendly,  respectful 
feeling  toward  God  is  because  he  knows  God's  a 
friend  of  his  mother's,  and  he's  willing  to  accept  al- 
most anybody  on  her  say-so.  And  the  only  reason 
things  are  bad  is  because  they  hurt  a  fellow's 
mother.  Later  on,  he  dopes  out  some  sort  of  a 
system  of  ethics  that  recognizes  abstract  right  and 
wrong;  but  it  never  does  have  quite  the  pull  with 
him  that  the  original  idea  has — you  see  it's  so  fright- 
fully complex — but  the  mother-test  is  perfectly 
simple.  A  small  boy  gets  mighty  well  acquainted 
with  his  mother.  He  can't  always  understand 
her  tastes.  She  has  queer  prejudices  against  so 
many  natural  and  agreeable  things — like  swimming 
in  the  river  and  fighting,  and  letting  the  dog  sleep 
on  the  bed.  There  are  times  when  he  really  can't 
bring  himself  to  respect  those  prejudices;  but,  on  the 
whole,  he  believes  that  her  tips  about  danger  zones 
and  safe  channels  are  pretty  straight,  even  if  he 

doesn't  always  follow  them.    Why,  my  mother 

He  did  rot  go  on,  but  sat  looking  out  into  the  night 
with  a  lonesome,  boyish  look  on  his  face  and  Jean 
wanted  to  comfort  him — wanted  very  much  indeed 
to  comfort  him — though  comforting  him  wasn't  at  all 
the  purpose  with  which  she  had  entered  upon  this 
conversation. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  189 

"  Well,  at  any  rate  I  can  remember  her,"  he  said  at 
last.  "I'm  sorry  for  you." 

And  that  is  as  far  as  they  went  in  self-revelation, 
for  Mrs.  Bonner  came  out  to  look  at  the  moon  and 
stayed  to  talk  about  nights  in  the  arctic  circle; 
so  they  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  frigidly.  The 
handy  man  knew  that  the  cook  could  not  re- 
member her  mother  and  the  cook  knew  that  the 
handy  man  had  loved  his  mother  dearly,  and  missed 
her.  That  was  all  the  moonlit  summer  night  had 
brought  about,  in  the  way  of  confidences.  No  great 
illumination  of  family  history,  perhaps:  but  the  two 
who  had  been  curious  felt  oddly  content.  They  were 
sorry  for  each  other,  and  being  sorry  for  each  other 
seemed,  temporarily,  an  absorbing  occupation. 

The  gardening  went  well;  or  at  least  fertilizers 
were  procured  and  soil  was  pulverized  and  a  garden 
line  was  religiously  used  and  not  a  weed  showed  its 
head,  without  being  grubbed  out.  Seeds  were  sown, 
•js  plentifully  as  they  had  been  bought.  That  the 
garden,  if  it  prospered,  would  be  large  enough  for 
twenty  families,  did  not  affect  the  enthusiasm  of 
either  the  gardener  or  his  employer. 

"We've  got  the  seeds;  let's  plant  them,"  said 
Teddy  recklessly  indifferent  to  future  Weeding  and 
hoeing,  spraying  and  watering.  The  garden  books 
and  Mrs.  Bonner  and  the  natural  Adam  in  him  had 


190  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

brought  on  garden  mania  in  its  most  virulent  form. 
Supplying  vegetables  and  flowers  for  a  family  of  four 
was  child's  work.  He  had  visions  of  vegetables  by 
the  wagonload — fresh,  succulent,  perfect  vegetables. 
He  saw  blue-and-white  borders  stretching  away  be- 
side all  the  stone  walls,  only,  being  a  man,  he  would 
have  preferred  red-and-white  borders — mostly  red. 

"Oh,  Edward,  you  are  a  comfort,"  Mrs.  Bonner 
said  happily,  one  morning  when  she  had  gone  to  him 
with  an  idea  about  pink  gladioli  and  heliotrope  that 
involved  digging  up  the  bulbs  they  had  planted 
two  days  earlier  and  he  had  received  the  shock  with 
undiminished  cheerfulness- 

"  The  other  men  were  such  wet  blankets.  I'd  have 
an  idea  so  lovely  that  I'd  lie  awake  most  of  the  night 
to  gloat  over  it  but  when  I'd  come  out  and  tell  Milton 
— or  Oscar  or  whoever  it  was — about  it,  he'd  look  at 
me  as  if  I  were  crazy  and  tell  me  ninety-nine  reasons 
why  the  thing  couldn't  possibly  be  done.  It  wasn't 
that  they  didn't  have  imagination;  they  had  plenty 
of  imagination  about  unpleasant  things.  They  could 
make  you  feel  as  though  you  were  dying  of  thirst  in  a 
desert  land  with  blight  attacking  your  hair  and  cut 
worms  and  striped  beetles  swarming  over  you,  and 
woodchucks  chewing  your  fingers.  Even  Tubbs 
could  do  that;  but  not  one  of  them  could  imagine  a 
bed  of  poppies  in  the  sunshine,  or  a  perfect  melon. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  191 

Now  you  and  I  believe  we  can  do  such  a  lot  of  beau- 
tiful impossible  things  that  we'll  probably  do  some  of 
them." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  gardener,  blithely.  "I  hope 
you  don't  mind  my  sowing  flower  seeds  along  the 
paths  in  the  vegetable  garden.  I'm  keen  about 
flowers  in  vegetable  gardens  myself." 

Mrs.  Bonner  clutched  at  his  shirt-sleeve  for  sup- 
port. 

"Edward" — she  was  half  laughing,  half  earnest — 
"I  can't  bear  it.  I  might  have  known — you  looked 
so  different — but  I  didn't  realize  it  was  a  flower-in-the 
vegetable-garden  look.  All  my  life  I've  wanted  a 
garden  like  one  in  Surrey  that  I  remember." 

Teddy  nodded.  "I  know;  flowers  around  the 
vegetables  and  a  wall  with  fruit  trees  smashed  out 
flat  against  it.  I  thought  we'd  have  to  raise  this 
stone  wall  about  three  feet." 

The  little  woman  looked  at  him  unbelievingly. 

"I  never  even  dared  suggest  it,  and  we'll  never  get 

it  done,  but  to  think  that  you Jean,  isn't  he  too 

wonderful?" 

The  girl  who  had  come  out  for  a  bunch  of  parsley, 
looked  at  him — standing  there  in  the  sunlight, 
straight  and  lean  and  strong  and  young  and  confident 
— and  a  little  throb  of  assent  ran  through  her.  He 
was  rather  wonderful,  such  a  beamish  boy,  and  yet 


192  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

with  the  man  look  in  his  eyes  and  about  his  mouth. 
He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  they  were  rolled 
up  above  his  elbows.  His  collar  was  unbuttoned  and 
fell  away  from  his  brown  throat.  He  wore  blue 
overalls,  and  his  hair,  wet  with  sweat,  was  pushed 
Lack  in  stringy  locks  from  his  forehead.  His  hands 
were  dirty,  the  knees  of  his  overalls  were  caked  with 
wet  earth,  but  there  was  not  a  hint  of  self-con- 
sciousness or  of  apology  about  him.  He  leaned  on 
his  spade  and  looked  at  her  out  of  straightforward, 
honest,  smiling  eyes;  and  she  liked  him — spade,  over- 
alls, and  all. 

However,  she  did  not  admit  that  he  was  wonderful. 
She  only  answered: 

"He's  very  optimistic,"  but  there  was  no  edge  on 
the  comment.  She  spoke  as  though  optimism  were  a 
commendable  thing. 

Life  slipped  into  country  ways  and,  on  the  whole, 
the  ways  were  pleasant  ones.  Mr.  Bonner  was  not 
interested  in  gardening,  but  June  brought  even  him 
out  of  his  shell.  He  fell  into  the  habit  of  leaving  his 
study  by  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  he 
and  his  wife  went  for  long  walks  or  sat  on  Cedar  Hill 
to  watch  the  sunsets.  Once  when  she  went  to  call 
them  for  supper,  Jean  found  them  standing  on  the 
verandah  looking  out  over  the  steep  green  slope  and 
the  treetops  of  the  valley  to  the  distant  hills  and 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  193 

a  rose-flushed  eastern  sky.  Mr.  Bonner's  arm  was 
around  the  little  gray  lady  and  her  head  was  on  his 
shoulder.  A  great  content  enveloped  them.  The 
glow  of  the  rose-hued  clouds — or  of  rose-hued  mem- 
ories— was  on  their  faces. 

The  cook  went  back  to  her  kitchen  and  put  her 
creamed  chicken  where  it  would  keep  warm.  Time 
enough  for  feeding  those  two  when  they  came  back 
out  of  the  Long  Ago.  —  ~~-~ 

She  sat  down  by  the  window  to  wait,  and  her  own: 
thoughts  went  roaming  among  the  yesterdays  but 
found  nothing  there  to  set  love-lights  in  her  eyes. 
There  had  been  foolish  men  who  had  fancied  them- 
selves in  love  with  her.  Even  red-headed,  freckled 
debutantes  were  fairly  sure  of  that  sort  of  tribute, 
and  she  had  had  more  than  the  usual  amount  of  it. 
There  had  been  moonlight  and  sunset  and  gloaming 
and  all  the  world-old  stage  settings;  and  some  of  the 
men  had  been  good-looking,  and  some  had  been 
clever,  and  some  had  been  bold,  but  not  one  of  them 
had  left  a  memory  that  thrilled  or  throbbed. 

Memories  were  all  very  well  for  the  middle-aged 
married  folk  out  on  the  verandah,  but  remembering 
was  lonesome  work  for  two-and-twenty,  and  the  girl 
by  the  window  felt  a  restless  quickening  of  her  heart- 
beats. All  of  her  life  was  ahead  of  her,  and  she  was 
eager  to  set  about  living  it.  Wasting  youth  was 


194  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

perilous  business.  It  was  a  pity  one  could  not  do 
all  the  stodgy,  disagreeable  things,  after  one  got  too 
Did  to  enjoy  the  full  flavour  of  doing  the  agreeable 
things.  Here  she  was,  cooking,  dishwashing,  mak- 
jing  a  living,  when  she  was  so  gloriously  capable  of 
doing  the  living. 

It  would  be  much  more  sensible  to  live  in  "Behind- 
the-Looking-Glass"  fashion.  First  you'd  do  your 
living  and  then  you'd  make  it — only  one  needed  the 
strength  and  courage  of  youth  for  the  making;  and, 
after  all,  it  wasn't  work  that  wasted  youth.  One 
could  work — slave — and  still  be  riotously  happy  if 
there  were  things  to  be  happy  about — big  things; 
but  just  to  go  ahead,  day  after  day,  doing  plain, 
undecorated  living,  did  seem  a  waste.  If  the  big 
things  were  coming  to  her,  she  wished  they  would 
hurry  along. 

Something  came  hurrying  along,  but  it  was  only 
Molly.  There  was  a  patter  of  feet  on  the  back 
porch,  a  chuckling  laugh  from  the  doorway,  a  little 
rush  across  the  room,  and  the  small  girl  was  hugging 
Jean's  knees. 

"Yun  away!"  she  announced  exultantly. 

Jean  gathered  her  into  her  arms  and  sat  down  by 
the  open  window. 

"Molly's  bad,"  she  said;  but  there  was  no  con- 
demnation in  her  voice  and  Molly  knew  it. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  195 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  sinner,  joyously.  "Molly's 
bad."  She  was  tremendously  pleased  with  herself. 

"What  will  mother  do?" 

"Hunt!  Jimmy  too."  Molly  wiggled  with  ecs- 
tasy at  the  thought. 

"Poor  mother!"  Jean  was  much  more  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  culprit  than  with  the  authorities, 
but  felt  that  she  really  must  say  a  word  for  law  and 
order. 

Molly  only  laughed. 

"She'll  hunt  an'  hunt" — she  said  happily — "an* 
ven  she'll  spank." 

Evidently  she  was  not  too  young  to  recognize  the 
inevitableness  of  retribution,  but  she  was  too  young 
for  fear  of  it.  The  game  was  worth  the  candle. 
The  excitement  was  worth  the  spanking.  Jean  en- 
vied her  the  courage  of  her  convictions.  She  felt  a 
bit  like  running  away  herself. 

"Bimeby  Jimmy'll  come.  Jimmy  always  comes." 
Molly  cuddled  down  more  comfortably  in  the  friendly 
arms  to  wait  for  Nemesis.  "Time  to  be  in  bed,"  she 
murmured  drowsily.  A  chuckle  followed  the  murmur. 
Running  away  was  amusing  enough  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  but  dodging  bed  time  was  added  joy. 

"Vere  was  a  snake  in  ve  woad '  she  sat  up 

straight  to  impart  this  thrilling  news — "a  gween 
one." 


196  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

She  dropped  back  against  Jean's  shoulder.  The 
long  lashes  fell  over  the  big  blue  eyes,  the  red  lips 
parted,  the  soft  breath  quieted  into  rhythm.  She 
had  had  her  fun.  She  would  have  her  spanking. 
Meanwhile  she  would  sleep.  Jean  hugged  her  close 
and  reflected  that  there  was  something  to  the  trite 
saying  that  childhood  was  the  happiest  time  in  life. 
Grown-ups  ran  away,  and  grown-ups — figuratively 
speaking — were  spanked;  but  grown-ups  seldom,  if 
ever,  were  able  to  sleep  peacefully  in  between. 

Just  what  to  do  Jean  did  not  know.  Susan  should 
not  be  allowed  to  worry,  but  Mrs.  Morley  had  no 
telephone  and  the  two  who  had  drifted  back  into 
June  might  waken  to  their  usual  autumnal  habits 
at  any  moment  and  want  their  supper.  Perhaps 
Jimmy  would  come,  and  speedily.  She  would  wait 
a  little  while  and  see. 

Out  beyond  the  window  by  which  she  sat  the 
world  was  trembling  between  afterglow  and  gloam- 
ing. There  was  a  hush  in  the  air  broken  now  and 
then  by  a  floating  fragment  of  some  bird's  sleepy 
song  or  the  strident  croaking  of  frogs  in  a  distant 
pond.  Everything  was  very  beautiful — and  very 
lonely.  The  girl's  heart  ached  with  the  beauty  and 
the  loneliness.  Holding  Molly's  soft  little  body  in 
her  arms  and  feeling  the  warm  little  cheek  against 
her  shoulder,  eased  the  loneliness — and  yet,  oddly 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  197 

enough,  intensified  it.  She  wanted  something.  Just 
what  it  was  she  did  not  know,  but  out  through  the 
stillness  and  the  wonder  of  the  world  there  was 
something  that  belonged  to  her,  and  if  only  she  could 
have  it,  there  would  be  no  loneliness  between  sunset 
and  twilight — only  beauty  and  heart  content. 

Someone  came  up  the  path  from  the  barn  and  into 
the  kitchen,  stooping,  as  he  passed  the  door. 

"Anything  wrong?"  the  handy  man  asked,  bend- 
ing to  look  at  the  child  in  Jean's  arms,  and  trans- 
ferring the  look  to  Jean  herself. 

She  stumbled  back  from  dreamland.  "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bonner  are  lovering  on  the  east  verandah  and 
the  supper  is  spoiling.  Will  you  have  yours?" 

Would  he  have  his?  She  meant  his  supper;  he 
understood  that  perfectly,  but  he  wanted  his  lover- 
ing,  and  he  came  very  near  telling  her  so. 

To  come  from  work  into  the  shadowy  kitchen  and 
to  find  her  waiting  there,  with  a  child  in  her  arms  and 
softness  in  her  voice  and  gentleness  in  her  eyes,  was 
almost  more  than  he  could  bear  without  flinging  dis- 
cretion aside  and  saying  what  was  seething  in  his 
mind  and  heart;  but  he  only  drew  a  long  breath  and 
stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"  I'd  better  take  Molly  home.  Her  mother  will  be 
worrying."  He  spoke  quietly  but  there  was  a  queer, 
husky  note  in  his  voice  and,  meeting  his  eyes,  Jean 


198  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

hastily  stooped  her  head  to  press  a  hot  cheek  against 
Molly's  cool  one. 

The  hush  of  the  world  deepened  suddenly — grew 
unbearable.  She  was  afraid  of  it,  afraid  of  a  thing  in 
the  man's  eyes,  afraid  of  a  thing  in  her  own  heart — 
yes,  afraid,  most  of  all,  of  that  thing  in  her  own  heart 
which  sent  strange  little  thrills  creeping  through  her 
nerves  and  set  quick  pulses  beating  in  her  temples 
and  surged  chokingly  up  into  her  throat. 

The  man  bent  over  her  and  she  gave  Molly  to  him 
without  looking  up  at  him  or  speaking.  She  could 
not  trust  her  voice — nor  her  eyes ;  and  her  hot  cheeks 
flushed  more  deeply  in  the  shielding  dusk. 

The  child  murmured  something  about  Jimmy, 
nestled  into  comfort  against  the  new  shoulder,  and 
slept  on. 

For  a  moment  the  man  stood  looking  down  at  the 
girl  in  the  straight-backed  kitchen  chair.  Then, 
without  a  word,  he  turned  and  went  away  through 
the  low-linteled  door  into  the  gathering  shadow. 

He  came  back  to  a  lighted  kitchen,  and  to  a  brisk 
and  practical  young  woman  who  had  already  fed  two 
elderly  sentimentalists  and  was  ready  for  him.  The 
poetry  of  the  June  night  had  been  ruthlessly  turned 
out  of  doors.  A  kerosene  lamp  with  a  big  and  gleam- 
ing reflector  relentlessly  chased  every  shadow  from 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  199 

even  the  remotest  corner.  The  scent  of  the  syringa 
that  grew  beside  the  kitchen  window  was  blotted 
out  by  the  masterful  smell  of  fried  onions. 

The  fried  onions  had  not  been  on  the  original  sup- 
per programme.  Jean  had  thrown  them  in  by  way 
of  protest  against  the  syringa  scent  and  all  that  had 
gone  with  it.  They  were  her  defiance  hurled  at 
Mother  Nature,  at  youth  and  June  magic  and  the 
world-old  lure. 

Teddy  blinked  as  he  came  into  the  lighted  room — 
looked  bewildered,  dismayed.  Few  men  are  emo- 
tional lightning-change  artists. 

The  lover  still  felt  the  tug  of  the  summer  dusk,  but 
the  man's  tastes  were  low.  He  liked  fried  onions, 
and  as  the  smell  of  them  assaulted  him,  he  admitted 
to  himself,  frankly,  as  is  the  way  of  men,  that  one  of 
the  things  he  was  hungry  for  was  food. 

So  he  tucked  away  a  man-sized  supper  and,  watch- 
ing him  across  the  table,  the  cook's  excitement  ebbed. 
There  was  something  very  reassuring  and  prosaic 
about  an  appetite  like  his. 

"Did  Susan  spank  her?"  she  asked. 

"No.     She's  going  to  do  it  to-morrow." 

Jean  laughed.  "Nobody  could  ever  spank  Molly 
to-morrow.  It  would  have  to  be  done  at  the  top 
notch  of  exasperation — and  I  don't  quite  see  how 
any  one  could  do  it  even  then." 


200  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Molly  was  not  spanked,  but  she  was  shut  in  a 
dark  closet;  came  out  of  the  enforced  retirement, 
cheerful,  loving,  utterly  unsubdued;  and  ran  away 
again  later  in  the  day. 

"Indeed,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
her,"  Susan  confessed  to  Mrs.  Bonner.  "Whip- 
ping won't  do  it;  I've  tried  that.  She  isn't  bad  any 
other  way — not  to  say  really  bad — but  she  will  run 
away.  She  says  her  feet  'just  yun  vemselves'." 

Mrs.  Bonner  radiated  sympathy.  "Bless  her 
heart!  I  know  all  about  it.  After  a  while,  her 
head  will  bully  her  feet  into  staying  home,  but  they 
will  always  want  to  run  away.  Some  people  are 
born  with  feet  like  that,  Susan.  I  was,  myself. 
You  mustn't  be  hard  on  Molly.  All  the  same,  it's 
dangerous  for  her  to  go  trotting  around  alone.  Some- 
body must  keep  an  eye  on  her." 

Everybody  tried  to  keep  an  eye  on  Molly.  She 
spent  as  much  time  at  the  Bonner  place  as  she  did 
at  home.  She  "helped"  Teddy  in  the  garden, 
changing  his  labels  about,  trotting  over  his  seed 
beds,  pulling  up  his  small  plants  in  the  fervour  of 
weeding,  half  drowning  herself  in  the  big  water 
barrel. 

She  helped  Jean,  mixing  and  spilling  and  breaking 
and  getting  under  foot,  all  with  such  irrepressible 
enthusiasm  and  good  will  that  scolding  was  out  of 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  201 

the  question.  She  followed  Mrs.  Bonner  into  her 
study,  appropriated  the  chunky  footstool  that  was 
an  indispensable  adjunct  of  the  high  desk  chair,  and 
demanded  "stories"  with  utter  disregard  of  a  public 
waiting  hungrily  for  an  authoritative  work  on  Faroe 
Island  Folk-lore. 

By  way  of  climax,  she  often  invaded  Mr.  Bonner' s 
sacred  retreat  in  mid  morning,  during  the  most 
precious  of  the  day's  work  hours.  Just  how  she  con- 
ducted the  first  attack,  no  one  ever  knew;  but  Jean, 
going  softly  by  the  door  of  the  room  where  the  scien- 
tist must  not  be  disturbed,  noticed  that  it  stood  ajar. 
As  she  stopped  to  close  it  gently,  so  gently  that  the 
working  of  the  scientific  mind  would  not  be  dis- 
turbed, she  heard  voices — heard  a  familiar  chuckle, 
a  crow  of  delight.  She  peered  incredulously  through 
the  crack.  There  on  the  big  table  desk  sat  Molly, 
kicking  her  heels  contentedly,  while  Mr.  Bonner 
holding  up  a  choice  specimen  of  Lithosiidoe  before 
her,  was  evidently  telling  a  most  exciting  story  of 
its  life  and  capture. 

Yes,  they  all  tried  to  keep  an  eye  upon  Molly, 
and  it  was  in  sheer  devotion  to  this  excellent  purpose 
that  the  Bonners'  cook  and  the  Bonners'  handy  man 
fell  into  the  way  of  roaming  fields  and  woods  and 
hills  together  in  the  long  afternoons. 

There  was  a  first  time,  when  Molly,  with  Jimmy  in 


202  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

tow,  appeared  and  demanded  Jean's  company.  On 
the  way  down  the  lane,  the  party  of  three  met 
Teddy  returning  from  a  fence-mending  expedition, 
and  Molly  annexed  him  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
clinging  to  one  of  his  legs  until  the  other  began 
walking  in  the  right  direction. 

So  the  party  of  four  went  on  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill  and  down  the  glen  to  the  open  glade  where  the 
tinkling  thread  of  brook  widened  into  a  pool  before 
slipping  away  over  great,  flat,  mossy  stones,  into  the 
deep  shadows. 

They  stopped  now  and  then  on  the  way — once  to 
pick  big  prickly  burrs  which  Jean  made  into  amaz- 
ingly ornate  baskets;  once  at  the  wood's  edge,  where 
the  same  accomplished  person  gathered  a  bunch  of 
little  blossoms  and  leaves  and  transformed  them  into 
the  fairest  of  flower  ladies;  once  under  a  spreading 
oak  tree,  where  Teddy,  jealous  of  feminine  achieve- 
ment, fashioned  solid  and  rotund  little  men  out  of 
acorns  and  twigs;  once  in  a  birch  grove,  where  a 
fleet  of  birch-bark  boats  was  whittled  out  and  rigged 
with  birch-leaf  sails. 

But  in  time  they  came  to  the  pool.  There  the 
grown-ups  sat  down  sedately  in  the  shade  of  an  old 
tree  that  grew  on  the  water's  edge,  while  Molly 
and  Jimmy  stretched  themselves  flat  on  their 
stomachs  and  launched  the  birch -bark  boats. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  203 

Molly  crowded  her  craft  with  flower  ladies,  but 
Jimmy  chose  a  crew  of  acorn  men  and  refused  to  take 
passengers. 

"Mine's  a  freighter,"  he  announced.  "What'll  we 
ship  on  her?" 

"Spices  from  Araby,"  suggested  Jean — "and  dates 
from  Samarcand — and  peacocks  and  greenparrots 
and  ivory  and  pearls  and  amber,  and  silks,  and  ruby 
necklaces  and  cocoanuts  and  tiger  skins  and " 

"Let's  talk  about  'em.  Let's  talk  about  'em  all." 
Jimmy's  eyes  were  shining. 

And  so  they  talked  about  them.  They  fished  for 
the  pearls  and  snared  the  parrots  and  carried  the 
ivory  and  dates  across  deserts  on  camel  back  and 
stopped  at  an  oasis  for  the  cocoanuts  and  finally 
Teddy  killed  the  tigers  in  order  to  get  the  skins.  He 
really  knew  a  lot  about  killing  tigers,  though  he 
didn't  mention  an  Indian  tiger-hunt  or  two  in  which 
he  had  shared,  and — for  a  handy  man — he  was 
surprisingly  well  up  on  caravans  and  camels  and 
oases.  In  fact  he  carried  off  the  honours  in  the 
game  when  facts  were  in  question  but  it  was  Jean  who 
shone  in  poetry  and  fiction. 

"Tell  fings  about  ladies,"  commanded  Molly,  and 
straightway  flower  maidens  were  sent  sailing  on 
perilous  seas,  and  were  captured  by  a  band  of  choke- 
cherry  pirates  whose  stronghold  was  among  the  roots 


204  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

of  the  old  tree,  and  were  rescued  by  acorn  heroes 
who — to  the  delight  of  Molly's  feminist  soul- 
could  not  swim  half  so  well  as  the  rescued  maidens. 

It  was  all  tremendously  thrilling  and  absorbing, 
so  much  so  that  the  grown-ups  forgot  their  dignity 
and  lay  down  flat  on  their  stomachs  beside  the  pool, 
though  the  feminine  grown-up  made  a  concession 
to  the  proprieties  by  not  kicking  her  heels  in  the  air, 
as  Molly  did,  in  moments  of  tense  excitement. 

The  pirates  scuttled  all  the  boats  in  the  end,  and 
the  flower  ladies  were  all  drowned  and  the  acorn  men 
who  were  not  slain  with  cutlasses  were  made  to  walk 
the  plank.  Jean  protested  but  the  masculine  vote 
was  against  her,  and  Molly  was  unfemininely  set 
upon  wholesale  slaughter. 

"An'  vey  groan  an'  groan  an'  groan,  an'  every- 
fing's  all  bloody  as  can  be,"  she  explained  with  fine 
relish. 

They  left  the  pirates  in  full  possession  of  the  pool 
and  went  home  through  the  lengthening  shadows  and 
the  waning  gold-green  light — Molly  in  front  with 
Jimmy  but  making  sudden  futile  dashes  around  trees 
and  into  undergrowth  to  solve  the  riddles  of  queer 
little  sounds  and  stirrings. 

"  So  many  fings  won't  wait  for  me,"  she  lamented, 
her  high,  sweet  little  voice  clear  as  bird  notes  on  the 
quiet  air.  "Everyfing's  vere,  but  I  can't  catch  it." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  205 

"Poor  Molly,"  Jean  sighed.  " She'll  always  be  try- 
ing to  catch  it  and  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  there." 

"Well,  that's  better  than  sitting  in  a  rocking- 
chair  to  wait  for  it  and  not  having  it  happen  along." 
Teddy  was  optimistic.  Suppose  he  had  just  gone  on 
sitting  in  Coles's  bay  window!  Suppose  he  hadn't 
tried  to  catch  it ! 

Not  "that  he  had  caught  it.  He  did  not  claim  that; 
but  here  he  was,  walking  through  the  sweet  fern  and 
bayberry  with  the  girl  beside  him,  and  the  summer 
was  little  more  than  begun.  If  he  had  any  luck  at  all, 
so  he  told  himself,  he  ought  to  beat  Jacob  to  it  by 
about  six  years  and  nine  months. 

The  day  after  the  piratical  fray  misfortune  came 
to  the  white  house  under  the  maples.  It  arrived  in  a 
blue  envelope  bearing  the  names  of  Pryor,  Balch  & 
Co.,  Mr.  Bonner's  lawyers,  and  Mrs.  Bonner  laid  it 
carelessly  aside  while  she  divided  her  attention  be- 
tween her  luncheon  and  a  collection  of  mail  not 
sheathed  in  blue.  She  had  always  found  blue- 
envelope  mail  dry  reading. 

With  the  dessert,  however,  she  came  to  the  legal 
epistle;  and  after  the  first,  few  typewritten  lines,  it  did 
not  prove  dry — somewhat  unintelligible,  absolutely 
incredible,  but  not  dry.  She  read  it  with  an  expression 
of  bewilderment  overspreading  her  face.  A  second 
reading  tinged  the  bewilderment  with  dismay. 


206  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Rufus,"  she  said,  looking  across  the  blue  sheet 
of  paper  at  her  husband  who  was  cutting  the  leaves  of 
a  newly  arrived  scientific  magazine. 

He  evidently  did  not  hear  her.  Mr.  Bonner  sel- 
dom consciously  heard  a  first  appeal  to  his  attention. 

"Rufus,"  she  repeated.  The  disturbed  note  in  her 
voice  caught  the  attention  of  her  cook  but  failed  to 
penetrate  her  husband's  detachment. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  he  answered  amiably  but  re- 
motely. 

"I've  such  a  strange  letter  from  Mr.  Pryor.  I  wish 
you'd  listen  a  moment." 

Mr.  Bonner  withdrew  his  attention  from  the  mag- 
azine but  carefully  marked  with  his  forefinger  a 
paragraph  in  which  he  had  become  interested. 

"It's  very  confusing,"  Mrs.  Bonner  seemed 
slightly  irritated.  "Something  has  happened  to  the 
Rubber  Company.  I  can't  understand  at  all  what 
has  happened — things  about  minority  stock  holders 
and  liabilities  and  reorganization  and  things  like  that. 
They've  passed  a  dividend  or  something  and  stock- 
holders won't  have  any  money.  I  really  don't  think 
people  ought  to  do  things  like  that.  Mr.  Pryor  seems 
to  think  it  is  going  to  be  very  inconvenient  for  us  and 
I  suppose  it  is.  It  does  seem  as  if  one's  lawyer  ought 
to  manage  such  matters  but  he  doesn't  suggest  any- 
thing— just  says  he  regrets  and  all  that,  but  there 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  207 

won't  be  any  money  for  us  this  summer.  You 
couldn't  do  anything  about  it,  could  you?" 

Mr.  Bonner's  eyes  were  already  wandering  toward 
the  paragraph  to  which  his  forefinger  faithfully 
pointed. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,  but  business  has  never  in- 
terested me."  He  spoke  with  courteous  regret,  but 
with  finality.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  inci- 
dent appeared  to  be  closed  and  Mrs.  Bonner  evidently 
accepted  his  statement  as  simply  as  he  made  it. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  admitted  For  a  few  mo- 
ments she  sat  looking  at  the  letter,  with  a  furrow  in 
her  usually  placid  brow;  but  gradually  her  face 
cleared  and  when  she  folded  the  sheet  and  put  it  into 
the  envelope  she  was  smiling  cheerfully. 

"Well  then,  Jean,  we'll  be  quite  poor  until  some- 
thing pleasant  happens,"  she  said  to  the  girl  who 
was  hovering  about  the  table,  doing  unnecessary 
things. 

"Do  you  mean  that  we  will  be  really  poor,  or  just 
comparatively  poor?"  Jean  asked.  She  was  sym- 
pathetic, excited,  inclined  to  treat  the  event  as 
disaster. 

"Oh,  quite  poor,  I  should  think" — Mrs.  Bonner's 
revived  serenity  refused  to  be  shaken  by  the  fact  she 
acknowledged — "but  probably  something  pleasant 
will  happen  soon.  It  usually  does;  and  there  is  the 


208  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

garden  you  know,  and  money  doesn't  really  make  so 
much  difference  in  the  country." 

"We'll  need  to  change  our  way  of  living,  won't 
we?"  The  cook's  mind  was  running  on  make-overs 
and  balanced  rations.  She  had  never  bothered  much 
about  these  chapters  in  the  cook  book. 

Mrs.  Bonner  gave  the  matter  fleeting  considera- 
tion. "  Why  yes,  I  suppose  we  will,"  she  assented. 
A  hint  of  helplessness  crept  into  her  eyes  but  was  ex- 
tinguished by  a  wave  of  inspiration.  "We  will 
not  have  beefsteak."  She  was  unshakably  firm 
about  it,  "Of  course  we  do  like  it,  but  you  said  it 
was  very  expensive — the  time  Clark's  bill  was  so  high 
you  know,  and  you  thought  we  ought  to  change 
butchers.  So  we'll  cut  out  beefsteak  altogether  and 
I'm  sure  we'll  get  along  beautifully.  At  any  rate  we 
won't  worry." 

She  gathered  up  her  mail,  rose  from  the  table  and 
went  toward  her  study  looking  greatly  relieved.  The 
unpleasant  situation  had  been  met,  adjusted.  Mr. 
Bonner  disappeared  through  the  door  of  his  study 
and  the  dining-room  was  left  to  a  young  woman  in 
whose  face  and  soul  amusement  and  consternation 
struggled  together. 

Such  Wonderlandish  babes !  And  such  an  upsetting 
happening.  Did  they  ha ve  any  money  at  all?  Could 
they  keep  things  going?  Would  she  get  her  wages? 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  209 

If  they  had  to  close  the  house,  what  would  she  do? 
Questions  swarmed  in  her  mind. 

If  only  there  were  a  man  to  handle  the  problem,    A 

man  could  look  into  the  matter,  would  understand 

|  about  stockholders  and  liabilities  and  things.     A  man 

would  do  something.     After  all  there   were  times 

when  a  man 

She  stopped  short,  on  her  way  kitchenward  with 
the  dessert  plates.  Some  one  was  whistling  out  in  the 
woodshed.  She  stood  listening  for  a  moment, 
frowned  a  little,  smiled  a  little,  gave  her  head  a  de- 
cisive nod. 

Why  not?  He  was  awfully  kind  and  he  adored 
Mrs.  Bonner  and  he  wasn't  at  all  stupid — incor- 
rigibly light-minded  and  slangy,  but  not  at  all 
stupid.  And  anyway  one  had  to  talk  things  over 
with  somebody. 

She  set  the  dishes  on  the  kitchen  table,  gave  a 
swift  glance  at  the  mirror  that  hung  between  the 
windows,  and  went  sedately  out  toward  the  wood- 
shed. 

The  handy  man  was  mending  a  hoe  handle  and  did 
not  hear  her  coming  but  the  mending  and  the  whistle 
stopped  abruptly  when  she  spoke. 

"Edward!"  She  called  him  Edward  now,  but  al- 
ways with  a  tinkle  of  ice  in  the  name  that  made  it 
sound  prodigiously  formal.  He  was  used  to  the 


210  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

frappe  solution  but  to-day  there  was  something  else 
in  the  "Edward."  He  noticed  it  at  once.  If  the 
thing  had  not  been  so  improbable,  he  would  have 
said  that  she  was  worried  and  turning  to  him  for  help, 
but  that  idea  found  no  lodgment  in  his  mind. 

"More  wood?"  he  asked  cheerfully,  as  he  laid  the 
crippled  hoe  aside  and  came  toward  her. 

"No;  there's  plenty  of  wood.  I  just  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

His  mind  searched  the  day's  record  in  trace  of  guilt, 
but  found  none.  He  had  made  the  fire  on  time.  He 
hadn't  gone  into  her  kitchen  with  muddy  boots.  He 
hadn't  spilled  water  on  her  spotless  linoleum.  He 
hadn't  kept  luncheon  waiting — indeed  had  had  his 
luncheon  early.  His  conscience  was  clear  but  she 
wanted  to  talk  to  him  and  she  looked  perturbed  and 
her  voice  sounded  younger  than  usual. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  asked.  There  must  be 
trouble.  She  couldn't  just  have  conceived  a  sudden 
and  overpowering  passion  for  his  style  of  conversa- 
tion. 

Jean  sat  down  on  the  chopping  block  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

"It's  about  the  Bonners,"  she  said. 

It  was  about  the  Bonners.  He  got  that  after  a 
brief  delay.  Just  for  a  moment  he  was  wholly  pre- 
occupied by  her  way  of  looking  up  at  a  man. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Yes?  What's  the  matter  with  the  cherubs?"  he 
asked  disrespectfully. 

She  told  him  all  about  it — at  least  she  told  him  all 
she  knew  about  it — and,  as  she  told  it,  it  seemed 
to  grow  less  and  less  distressing.  Edward  was 
so  obviously  unmoved  by  the  mention  of  minority 
stock  holders  and  liabilities  and  he  was  so  ex- 
ceedingly appreciative  of  Mr.  Bonner's  refusal  to 
be  interested  in  his  own  business,  and  of  Mrs. 
Bonner's  masterly  domestic  strategy  in  the  matter 
of  beefsteak. 

"That's  all  I  could  get  out  of  them,"  she  ended, 
"and  now  they're  writing  away  as  contentedly  as 
though  an  uncle  in  India  had  died  and  left  them 
millions." 

"Aren't  they  the  real  thing  in  puncture-proofs?" 

Teddy's  tone  was  admiring,  affectionate;  but  his 
eyes  were  serious. 

"It  sounds  like  rather  a  mess  though.  I  sympa- 
thize with  the  old  gentleman  myself.  Business  has 
never  interested  me  but  it  looks  as  though  some- 
body'd  better  get  busy  and  find  out  what's  happened. 
We'll  have  to  know  where  we  stand." 

He  looked  so  big  and  confident  and  reliable  that 
Jean  felt  much  as  Mrs.  Bonner  had,  after  her  inspira- 
tion about  the  steak.  She  was  sure  they  would  get 
along  beautifully. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"I'll  nail  Mrs.  Bonner  this  afternoon  when  she 
comes  to  the  garden,"  the  man  promised. 

And  he  did. 

The  little  gray  lady's  usual  four  o'clock  stroll  was 
quite  spoiled,  but  she  was  very  amiable  about  it,  and 
entirely  willing  to  tell  her  gardener  all  that  she  knew 
about  her  own  business  affairs,  which  was  not  much. 
She  took  him  into  the  house  and  showed  him  some 
business  papers — Mr.  Bonner's  business  papers. 

"He  hasn't  room  in  his  desk  for  things  like  that," 
she  explained.  "So  many  valuable  notes  and  data 
you  know;  but  I  thought  they  ought  to  be  kept,  so  I 
brought  them  in  here.  They  haven't  anything  to  do 
with  the  Rubber  Company  stock  though.  That  is 
mine.  I  think  it's  about  all  we  have  that  pays. 
My  husband  has  always  been  attracted  to  mines. 
They  do  sound  very  interesting,  don't  they?  But 
they  don't  seem  to  be  reliable. 

"  Old  Mr.  Pry  or  was  a  great  comfort.  He  took  care 
of  my  business  for  me  and  didn't  bother  me  at  all;  just 
sent  me  checks  twice  a  year — nice  big  checks.  He 
died  two  years  ago  and  his  son  seems  to  be  different. 
He  writes  and  wants  orders  about  things  and  the 
checks  haven't  been  so  big  and  now  there  isn't  any 
check  at  all.  Of  course  it  may  not  be  his  fault  but  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  he's  not  so  capable  a  lawyer  as 
his  father  was." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  213 

Later,  Teddy  wrote  a  letter  to  young  Mr.  Pry  or. 

"I'm  afraid  it  means  being  actually  hard  up  for  a 
while,"  he  reported  to  Jean.  "There's  very  little  in 
the  bank  and  nothing  else  hi  sight.  Mr.  Bonner's 
investments  are  the  choicest  collection  of  gold  bricks 
you  ever  saw.  He's  bought  stock  in  mines  all  the 
way  from  Mexico  to  Labrador  and  I  guess  none  of 
them  has  ever  made  a  cent  for  him.  They've  had  a 
corking  good  income  out  of  this  rubber  stock  that  she 
inherited  from  an  uncle,  but  they've  never  saved  a 
penny  of  it — just  gone  mooning  along  relying  on 
manna.  I  don't  know  but  what  it's  as  good  a  way  as 
any.  They've  had  a  bully  time  and  now  when  they 
come  a  cropper,  somebody  will  turn  in  and  help  them 
out.  Somebody  always  does  turn  in  and  help  the 
incapables  out. 

"Did  you  ever  have  to  learn  that  beastly  French 
fable  about  the  grasshopper  and  the  ant?  I  was  all 
for  the  grasshopper  myself — but  the  fable  hasn't  got 
the  thing  right  at  all.  'You've  sung  all  summer'  the 
ant  says  to  the  grasshopper,  you  know, '  Well  you  can 
dance  now.'  And  then  the  grasshopper  dies  a  victim 
of  his  own  idleness.  That's  fable  right  enough;  it 
isn't  fact.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  the  ants  just  groan  a 
little  and  haul  out  the  food  and  stuff  they've  stored 
up  by  losing  all  the  fun,  and  give  it  to  the  grass- 
hoppers so  that  they  can  go  on  singing." 


214  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"I  don't  notice  an  ant  hill  in  the  immediate  fore- 
ground," Jean  was  too  much  occupied  with  the  mat- 
ter in  hand  to  go  in  for  generalization. 

The  handy  man  laughed  a  little  softly. 

"Looks  as  though  it  were  up  to  us  to  be  the  ants," 
he  said  with  a  cheerful  grin.  "I've  never  been  much 
of  a  toiler  and  saver  myself  but  I  guess  I  can  get  the 
trick  if  I  have  to." 

Taking  a  family  upon  his  hands  seemed  to  have  no 
terrors  for  him,  and  Jean,  guiltily  conscious  of  an  un- 
heroic  and  culpably  selfish  concern  about  her  wages, 
eyed  him  with  open  admiration. 

"You're  splendid,"  she  said  frankly.  "I  didn't 
suppose  men  were  like  that.  It  isn't  business." 

The  grin  broadened. 

"I  suppose  it  isn't  business  but,  as  Jimmy  would 
say,  'it's  beans';  and  one  can't  desert  helpless  in- 
fants by  the  roadside." 

"No;  one  can't."  She  waved  a  mental  good-bye 
to  thirty-five  dollars  a  month  but  sighed  softly  as  she 
did  it. 

Teddy  caught  the  fluttering  sigh;  but,  the  next 
moment,  doubted  whether  he  had  heard  it,  for  she  was 
smiling  at  him  gayly. 

"It's  exciting,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "I  wish  I  had 
kept  all  the  Woman's-Page  newspaper  articles  about 
how  to  live  on  nothing  a  year.  Can  you  fish?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  215 

"I  can." 

"Can  you  catch  fish?" 

"If  there  are  fish." 

"Jimmy  says  there  are  pickerel  in  Green  River,  big 
ones — and  sun  fish.  I  told  him  I'd  go  fishing  with 
him." 

"  We  will — twice  a  week."  He  was  evidently  ready 
to  sacrifice  himself  to  any  extent. 

"Fish  would  help  a  lot;  and  we've  prunes — perfect 
stacks  of  prunes.  And  rice;  Mrs.  Bonner  bought 
tons  of  rice!  The  man  at  Macy's  told  her  there 
were  six  hundred  and  two  delicious  nourishing 
dishes  that  could  be  made  out  of  rice,  and  that  a 
Japanese  could  live  and  get  fat  on  a  handful  of  rice 
a  day. 

"I  haa  a  prejudice  against  that  grocery  clerk  but 
now  my  heart  warms  to  him.  If  worst  comes  to 
worst  we  can  live  on  sardines  and  kippered  herring. 
He  sold  Mrs.  Bonner  enough  of  those  for  an  army. 
Wasn't  she  a  lambkin  to  buy  such  a  silly  lot  of  stuff 
when  she  had  the  money?  We'll  worry  along  beau- 
tifully until  her  'something  pleasant'  happens.  She 
was  perfectly  sure  something  pleasant  would  hap- 
pen." 

"Something  pleasant  has  happened."  There  was 
profound  conviction  in  his  voice.  Wasn't  it  a  pleas- 
ant thing  to  find  the  walls  of  Troy  town  down,  and 


216  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Helen  and  himself  sitting  among  the  ruins  planning  a 
partnership? 

A  letter  came  to  Mr.  Edward  Burton  from  young 
Mr.  Pryor  confirming  the  bad  news  of  the  first  letter 
and  adding  details  that  were  presumably  a  concession 
to  masculine  intelligence. 

Things  were  bad  enough  temporarily.  The  tangle 
would  be  straightened  out  in  time.  The  property  was 
sound,  but  there  had  been  mismanagement;  a  combi- 
nation of  unfortunate  circumstances  had  made 
trouble.  Mr.  Pryor  would  look  out  for  Mrs.  Bon- 
ner's  interests  and  report  to  her;  or,  with  her  au- 
thorization, to  Mr.  Burton. 

"And  so,"  the  aforesaid  Mr.  Burton  explained  to 
the  aforesaid  Mrs.  Bonner's  cook,  "we've  got  to  cut 
the  gasolene  and  butter  bills.  If  we  don't  wallop  the 
high  cost  of  living,  we  won't  be  able  to  pay  ourselves 
our  wages." 

"Wages!"  The  cook's  face  radiated  relief.  "I 
thought  we  weren't  going  to  have  wages." 

"The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,"  her  fellow  ser- 
vant quoted  solemnly,  "and  we're  going  to  be  some 
little  labourers,"  he  added  in  less  stately  vein. 

He  had  noticed  the  flushed  cheeks  and  happy  eyes 
with  a  thump  of  his  heart. 

To  think  that  she  needed  the  measly  thirty-five 
dollars  a  month — that  she  actually  needed  it — and 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  217 

he'd  been  loping  around  spending  ten  thousand  a 
year! 

That  thirty-five  a  month  was  all  she  had  to  depend 
on  and  yet  she'd  been  willing  to  stand  by  and  see  the 
Bonners  through. 

He  wanted  to  pick  her  up  and  run  away  with  her, 
wanted  to  give  her  everything  the  world  had  to  offer, 
wanted  to  pull  the  solar  system  apart  and  make  it 
into  a  necklace  for  her.  It  was  a  crime  for  a  girl 
like  that  to  have  to  work  and  scrimp  and  worry, 

while  the  other  girls  he  had  known Right  there 

he  pulled  himself  up  short. 

The  other  girls  he  had  known  had  been  brought  up 
on  the  no-work,  no-scrimp,  no-worry  system,  and 
look  at  them!  Maybe  idleness  and  luxury  and  self- 
indulgence  didn't  make  girls  like  this  one.  Perhaps 
a  girl  needed  grilling  as  much  as  a  boy.  A  woman 
was  likely  to  have  as  many  hard  things  to  meet  as  a 
man  when  it  came  to  real  living,  might  even  have 
to  help  a  man  meet  his  hard  things  as  a  partner 
should.  Fat  chance  of  a  partner  a  fellow  had  when 
he  picked  his  winner  out  of  the  society  bunch.  Now 
Jean—  But,  all  the  same  he  wanted  to  give  her 
the  universe  to  play  with,  and  he  had  just  twenty- 
eight  dollars  and  four  cents. 

Of  course  he  could  get  money— borrow  it,  write  to 
his  father  for  it;  not  money  enough  to  corral  the 


218  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

universe  but  enough  to  see  the  Bonners  through » 
The  girl  wouldn't  take  the  universe  from  him  even 
if  he  could  hand  it  to  her  on  a  silver  tray — not  yet. 

Yes;  he  could  get  the  money,  but  it  would  be  a 
crawl.  He  had  cleaned  out  his  bank  account  to 
pay  up  his  debts  before  leaving  town  and  had  written 
his  father  that  he  wouldn't  want  his  allowance,  any 
longer,  that  he  was  going  to  make  his  own  way  dur- 
ing the  summer  and  jump  into  the  business  in  the 
fall.  Somehow  or  other,  living  on  an  allowance 
hadn't  seemed  good  enough — after  he'd  seen 
Jean. 

The  old  gentleman  hadn't  protested,  hadn't  asked 
questions,  had  merely  taken  him  at  his  word.  That 
was  like  Dad.  Fishing  through  his  pockets,  he 
pulled  out  a  crumpled  letter,  smoothed  it  out  and 
read  it  again.  His  father  had  dictated  to  his  steno- 
grapher: 

DEAR  TED:  Yours  of  the  8th  to  hand  and  contents 
noted.  You  do  not  go  into  details;  but  I  assume  that 
you  haven't  given  up  your  Canada  fishing  trip  and  sum- 
mer in  British  Columbia  except  for  something  you  like 
better.  Don't  marry  it. 

However,  when  you  tell  me  that  you  don't  intend 
to  spend  more  during  the  summer  than  you  will  earn,  I 
doubt  whether  a  petticoat  is  responsible  for  your  change 
of  plans. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  219 

Let  me  hear  from  you  when  you  need  me.     Probably 
you'd  better  let  me  hear  a  little  in  advance  of  the  need. 

Your  affectionate  father, 
EDWARD  BURTON. 

'     P.  S. — You  ask  me  to  trust  you.     I  always  have  done 
so.     I  do.     Still  you've  often  been  a  good  deal  of  an  ass. 

DAD. 


(The  postscript  was  in  his  father's  handwriting.) 

Teddy's  eyes  smiled  as  he  read.  Bully  old  Dad. 
Bursting  with  curiosity  and  more  worried  about  this 
summer  at  hard  labour  than  he  had  ever  been  by 
anything  his  prodigal  son  had  sprung  upon  him,  but 
asking  no  questions.  He  had  set  a  two-year  limit 
and  he  was  sticking  to  it. 

No,  he  wouldn't  write  to  Dad  for  money.  He 
wouldn't  borrow  money.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  would  see  what  he  was  worth  when  it  came 
down  to  primitive  valuations,  find  out  whether  he 
could  buckle  down  and  take  care  of  himself  and  of  a 
family.  Jean  would  help  him.  He  repeated  that 
(to  himself  several  times.  "Jean  would  help."  Jean 
was  that  kind. 

There  was  something  immensely  stimulating  about 
the  idea  of  taking  care  of  a  family  with  Jean  to  help 
him.  Lord!  What  couldn't  a  man  do  with  a  girl 
like  Jean  to  help? 


220  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

The  new  regime  was  inaugurated  at  once.  Revolu- 
tion swept  through  the  Bonner  menage  but  the 
Bonners  themselves  never  noticed  that  anything 
was  happening,  and,  indeed,  there  was  no  pLcc  where 
the  new  economy  pinched  their  comfort. 

Jean  had  always  taken  pride  in  her  housekeeping. 
Now  she  put  heart  and  brain  and  body  into  it  and 
found  the  game  of  stretching  a  collar  to  its  ultimate 
limit  of  value  the  most  absorbing  and  fascinating 
one  she  had  ever  played. 

Perhaps  if  she  had  been  making  the  fight  single- 
handed  and  alone,  her  enthusiasm  might  have  flagged 
more  readily;  but  a  partner  was  extraordinarily 
stimulating  and  her  partner,  in  particular,  was  appre- 
ciative to  a  degree  that  spurred  her  on  to  miracles  of 
achievement.  It  is  only  a  very  saintly  soul  that 
can  keep  the  acts  of  his  right  hand  from  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  left  hand  and  still  find  a  spicy  flavour  in 
well  doing.  Your  ordinary  mortal  needs  some  one 
to  whom  he  can  boast  at  the  end  of  a  well-spent  day 
and  Jean's  partner  tolerated  boastfulness,  encouraged 
it.  He  even  boasted  a  little  himself — modestly — • 
and  Jean  was  fair  enough  to  take  a  fervent  interest 
in  his  end  of  the  game.  She  could  not  thrill  to  the 
renting  of  pasturage  as  she  could  to  a  cut  in  the 
butter  bill;  but  she  did  thrill,  and  thrilling  was  such  a 
pink-cheeked  shining-eyed  process  on  her  part,  that 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

it  would  have  rewarded  a  man  for  a  doughtier  deed 
than  wringing  six  dollars  out  of  an  untilled  field. 

Still,  six  dollars  would  go  a  long  way  in  the  hands 
of  a  young  woman  who  was  a  wizard  at  manipulating 
food  values.  She  assured  him  of  that. 

"The  things  I  can  do  with  stuff  I've  always  wasted 
before!"  she  chortled  triumphantly.  "It's  wonder- 
ful, and  yet  I  thought  I  was  being  economical  all 
the  time.  It's  odds  and  ends  and  corners  and  all 
that." 

She  was  not  lucid  but  he  got  her  idea. 

"If  only  we  had  a  cow."  Her  voice  oozed  hope^ 
less  longing.  "A  cow  and  chickens.  We've  got  the 
garden  and  the  fruit,  and  with  butter  and  milk  and 
eggs—  A  cow  and  chickens  would  be  perfect, 
simply  perfect.  If  we'd  only  known  what  was  com- 
ing! The  Bonners  would  just  as  soon  have  bought 
cows  and  chickens  as  anything  else  when  they  had 
money,  but  of  course  we  couldn't  tell " 

Oh  that  "we"!— that  "we"!  The  listening  man 
almost  purred  for  joy  in  it. 

She  must  have  a  cow  and  chickens.  That  was 
flat.  Short  of  larceny  he  did  not  see  a  way  of  ac- 
complishing it,  but  the  thing  was  as  good  as  done. 

By  way  of  making  a  start  he  took  Peter  Pease  into 
his  confidence  the  next  morning  when  that  friendly 
neighbour  dropped  in  to  watch  Teddy  at  his  garden 


222  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

work.  Peter  did  not  work  himself — not  more  than 
was  absolutely  necessary.  He  was  alone.  A  micro- 
scopic pension  came  to  him  regularly.  His  wants 
were  few,  and  violent  effort  was  not  one  of  them— 
however,  he  took  a  tolerant  interest  in  the  activities 
of  others  and  he  knew  the  neighbourhood  thoroughly, 
exhaustively.  He  had  time  to  know  it. 

"Want  chickens,  eh?  And  the  use  of  a  cow?" 
He  seemed  surprised,  even  grieved  by  the  folly  of 
it. 

"Mean's  work,  son,"  he  warned  but  when  the 
Bonners'  handy  man  insisted  that  he  was  suicidally 
bent  upon  adding  to  his  own  labours,  Peter  sat  down 
on  a  wheelbarrow,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  gave  his 
mind  to  the  problem. 

"There's  Tim  Kelly  down  below  the  hill,"  he  said. 
Teddy  had  never  heard  of  Tim  Kelly,  but  waited 
hopefully. 

"Tim's  come  into  money  from  an  uncle  in  Tam- 
many. At  least  he  was  in  Tammany.  Where  the 
man  is  now  I'll  not  say,  but  the  crowd  he's  training 
with  is  maybe  much  the  same  as  'twas  here.  But  at 
any  rate  Tim's  come  into  money  and  he's  going  away 
to  spend  it.  He'll  be  selling  off  his  things  and  Mary 
Kelly — his  wife — has  got  a  fine  lot  of  barred  Ply- 
mouth Rocks.  They  ve  about  supported  the  family 
but  now  that  the  family  doesn't  need  supporting  I 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  223 

guess  Plymouth  Rocks'll  go  cheap.  Anything  to 
get  away  quick  and  begin  catching  up  with  the 
procession.  You  send  Mrs.  Morley's  Jim  down  to 
offer  'em  five  dollars  for  the  lot.  Don't  go  yourself. 
If  Tim  knew  summer  folks  wanted  them,  he'd  stick 
you,  even  if  he  don't  need  the  money — just  on  prin- 
ciple— but  he'll  let  Mrs.  Morley  have  'em  for  five. 

"Then  about  that  cow.  Parsons,  over  on  Spring 
Hill's  got  more  cows  than  he  can  handle  just  now. 
Wife's  sick.  Can't  make  butter,  and  no  hired  help 
to  be  got,  and  not  much  pasture,  and  feed's  high. 
I  guess  if  you  was  to  offer  to  let  him  turn  his  young 
heifers  into  your  east  meadow  where  there's  plenty 
of  water  and  good  grass,  and  would  feed  a  cow  up  and 
let  him  have  it  again  in  September,  he'd  give  you 
the  use  of  it." 

Tim  Kelly,  in  the  flush  of  sudden  prosperity 
scorned  to  haggle  over  chickens.  Jimmy  returned 
from  his  errand  divided  between  exultation  over  a 
good  bargain  and  grief  over  the  loss  of  a  better  one. 

"He'd  a  let  me  have  'em  for  three,  if  I  hadn't 
been  chucklehead  enough  to  offer  'im  five  before  he 
began  tellin'  me  about  how  he  was  goin'  to  live  in 
New  York!" — he  reported — "but  I  got  'im  to  throw 
in  some  nestin'  boxes  and  a  roll  of  chicken  wire." 

Mr.  Parsons  too,  was  amenable  to  reason.     Three 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

days  later  the  Bonners'  cook  and  the  Bonners' 
handy  man  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  placid  Jersey 
cow  and  a  hysterical  tribe  of  chickens. 

"Now,"  remarked  the  cook  with  profound  satis- 
faction, "I  feel  that  the  family  circle  is  complete." 

Teddy  made  a  chicken  run  and — to  the  very  con- 
siderable inconvenience  of  Gladys,  the  new  cow — 
learned  to  milk.  Jean  fed  chickens  and  scoured 
milk  pans  and  made  butter. 

"There's  those  that  like  work,"  admitted  Peter 
Pease,  "and  I  believe  in  letting  every  one  be  happy 
in  his  own  way;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  as  if  you  two 
had  gone  looking  for  trouble  and  found  it." 

It  was  Peter  who  suggested  selling  the  surplus 
garden  stuff. 

"You've  got  enough  to  feed  the  country.  Lord 
knows  why  you  planted  it.  What's  the  use  of  work- 
ing to  raise  it  and  then  giving  most  of  it  away?" 

"  Well, .neighbours,  you  know "  began  Teddy. 

"No,  I  don't  know — not  when  it  goes  as  far  as 
work;  but  I  wasn't  talking  about  neighbours.  It's 
Bowles  I've  got  my  eye  on.  Get  him  to  take  garden 
truck  in  exchange  for  groceries  and  meat.  He'll  do 
it.  He's  got  to  have  vegetables,  and  nobody  else 
around  here  raises  stuff  like  yours,  sits  up  nights  with 
it  and  holds  its  hand  and  tucks  it  in  and  feeds  it  and 
gives  it  drinks  and  doctors  it  and  all  that  sort  of 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Agricultural  College  foolishness.  Bowles'll  be  glad  to 
make  a  deal  with  you." 

And  Bowles,  if  not  glad,  was  willing. 

Peter  Pease  smiled  indulgently  when  told  the  good 
news. 

"You  see  it  isn't  that  I  couldn't  make  money,"  he 
said,  "It's  that  I  don't  want  it." 

Ragged,  cheerful,  contented,  the  descendant  of 
Puritan  stock  sat  on  the  well-curb  in  the  sunshine, 
and  was  at  peace  with  the  world. 

"You're  rather  magnificent  you  know"  (Teddy's 
voice  had  a  note  of  envy  in  it).  "You  and  Buddha 
and  the  rest;  but  I  guess  I  was  built  for  a  Thing- 
worshipper." 

"She's  a  pretty  thing."  Peter's  remark  was  irrele- 
vant of  course;  but  his  face  took  on  a  look  of  even 
more  profound  content  as  he  watched  Jean  Mackaye 
coming  down  the  path  toward  the  well.  He  liked  to 
look  at  a  pretty  woman.  It  was  pleasant,  and  it  was 
easy. 

Peter  was  not  the  only  friend  the  partners  made  in 
those  first  days  of  feeling  then*  way.  There  had  been 
no  prejudice  against  the  Bonners  in  the  countryside. 
Like  Mr.  Flavin,  in  the  city,  the  country  folk  had 
classified  the  pair  as  "daft"  and  were  inclined  to 
accord  them  the  tolerent  kindliness  usually  granted 
to  the  feeble-minded.  There  were  exceptions.  Mrs. 


226  HOW  COULD    *Otf,  JEAlNr 

Morley,  for  example,  had  learned  something  of  Mrs. 
Bonner's  quality,  and  tried  to  make  others  believe  in 
it,  but  few  came  near  enough  to  understand  the  little 
gray  lady  and  her  stooping,  gentle-mannered  hus- 
band, and  there  had  been  little  coming  and  going 
between  the  white  house  under  the  maples  and  the 
homes  round  about  it. 

Now,  gradually,  the  Bonner  household  began  to  be- 
long— to  be  a  part  of  the  country  life,  instead  of  a 
God-given,  vaguely  impersonal  source  of  summer 
revenue  for  the  community. 

The  Bonners  were  hard  up.  Every  one  knew  it. 
Jean  and  Teddy  had  not  talked  but  Mrs.  Bonner  had. 
She  had  told  Mrs.  Morley  all  about  it,  treating  it  as  a 
cheerful  if  unimportant  topic  of  conversation.  She 
had  told  the  minister,  too,  when  he  came  to  make  his 
annual  call,  and  had  been  frankly  amazed  when  he 
had  treated  the  situation  as  one  calling  for  sympathy 
and  quotations  from  the  more  encouraging  parts  of 
the  Psalms. 

"But  we  are  getting  along  perfectly,"  she  ex- 
plained. "Jean  and  Edward  are  such  excellent 
managers  and  it  isn't  as  if  things  weren't  going  to  be 
all  right  again  very  soon.  Yes,  of  course  I  do  pray, 
but  not  more  than  usual.  I  forget  about  praying — 
in  words  you  know — a  good  deal  of  the  time,  but  I'm 
very  sure  with  my  heart  all  the  time,  and  that  does 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  227 

just  as  well,  don't  you  think?  Sometimes  I  think  it's 
the  only  part  of  prayer  that  gets  as  far  as  God  any- 
way; but  everybody  must  pray  as  he  likes — only  I 
wouldn't  think  of  praying  a  special  prayer  about  the 
Rubber  Company.  It  doesn't  seem  as  though  the 
Rubber  Company  would  make  a  good  prayer;  so 
I'm  just  very  thankful  about  having  Jean  and 
Edward  and  that's  all  the  special  praying  I'v«  been 
doing." 

She  wasn't  flippant  or  irreverent.  She  was  only 
very  simple  and  cheerful;  and  the  lean,  long,  over- 
conscientious  young  man  with  the  ministerial  manner 
and  the  very  human  heart,  smiled  at  her  as  he  might 
have  smiled  at  Molly,  and  put  his  professional  sym- 
pathy and  encouragement  back  in  the  pocket  of  his 
clerical  coat. 

He  met  Teddy  out  in  the  front  yard  as  he  was  leav- 
ing, and  interrupted  the  lawn  mowing  for  a  long  time, 
but  the  two  were  not  talking  about  the  condition  of 
Teddy's  soul.  They  were  discussing  fishing  and 
baseball  and  canoeing  and  chicken  feed  and  head 
lettuce;  and,  finally,  they  strolled  around  the  house 
to  the  garden  where  they  found  Jean  picking  peas  for 
supper. 

She  showed  no  consideration  whatsoever  for  the 
cloth.  Here  was  a  young  man,  a  good-looking  young 
man.  That  he  was  a  very  godly  young  man  made  no 


228  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

difference  in  her  attitude  toward  the  phenomenon. 
For  a  long  time  she  had  been  very,  very  good. 
Moreover,  Mrs.  Bonner's  handy  man  had  never  seen 
her  with  another  young  man. 

/  The  young  minister  enjoyed  a  very  stimulating  if 
slightly  bewildering  hour  on  a  garden  bench  and  went 
away  with  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole  and  confusion  in 
his  orderly  bachelor  heart. 

He  talked  a  good  deal  about  the  Bonner  household, 
as  he  made  his  other  visits,  not  because  he  was  a 
gossip  but  because  he  really  could  not  keep  away 
from  the  subject  and  since  he  was  as  simple  and 
transparent  as  he  was  good,  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society, 
at  its  next  session,  devoted  much  of  its  time  and  talk 
to  the  susceptibility  of  the  unmarried  clergy  and  to 
Jean  Mackaye's  looks  and  character. 

Mrs.  Morley,  the  only  member  who  was  actually 
qualified  to  express  an  opinion  about  the  young 
person's  character,  spoke  with  no  uncertain  note. 

"She's  as  nice  a  girl  as  ever  stepped — and  I  don't 
care  where  the  next  one  comes  from,"  she  declared 
stoutly.  "The  way  she  takes  care  of  those  two  Bon- 
ners!  And  her  kitchen  floor  so  you  could  eat  off  it, 
and  always  a  pleasant  word  and  a  smile,  and  not  a 
hook  or  button  off.  Clean  as  ice  she  is — and  saving, 
and  smart.  Susan  can  tell  you.  And  if  she  has 
pretty  looks  and  a  way  with  her,  it's  what  the 


HOW  COULD   YOU,  JEAN?  229 

Lord's  given  her.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  our  min- 
ister when  he  gave  them  to  her,  and  anyway  you 
don't  need  to  be  worrying.  There'll  be  plenty  of 
men  at  her  heels  before  she  picks  one,  and  it's  my 
opinion  that  young  Burton  isn't  blind  or  deaf  or 
dumb,  or  mortal  slow  either." 

Whereupon  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society  transferred  its 
attention  to  Edward  Burton,  Junior. 

As  the  local  paper  put  it:  "A  very  pleasant  time 
was  had  by  all  present  at  the  meeting  of  the  Ladies5 
Aid  Society  on  Saturday."  And  after  that  meeting, 
Jean  and  Teddy  were  public  characters  though  they 
did  not  realize  it. 

Peter  Pease  testified,  early  and  late,  to  their 
virtues,  and  though  the  neighbourhood  condemned 
Peter's  philosophy  of  life,  it  respected  his  judgment 
— and  information — about  the  lives  of  others. 

"Those  two  young  folks  at  Bonners  are  stem 
winders,"  he  declared.  "Yes,  sir,  stem  winders. 
They  haven't  got  much  experience,  and  I  don't  know 
as  they've  got  much  learning,  but  they've  got  horse 
sense  and  grit,  and  they're  as  lively  and  sassy  as 
chipmunks — always  laughing  and  joking  and  taking 
care  of  the  old  gentleman  and  lady  as  if  it  was  a 
blessed  privilege  instead  of  hard  work.  Why,  do  you 
know,  I  don't  believe  they're  taking  any  wages  at 
all  now?  I  overheard  them  talking  one  day.  He  was 


230  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

trying  to  make  her  take  her  wages  out  of  some 
money  he'd  got  for  hay,  and  she  asked  had  he  taken 
his  own  wages — and  when  he  sort  of  hesitated  a 
minute,  she  said  it  was  insulting  of  him  to  think  she 
was  a  horrid  mercenary  little  toad,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew  she  came  tearing  around  the  woodhouse 
plump  into  me.  Mad  as  a  hornet  she  was,  and  tears 
in  her  eyes.  *#< 

' 'Mr.  Pease,'  she  said,  'the  ideas  you  men  have 
about  women  are  outrageous — perfectly  outrageous. 
I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  yourselves  not  to 
have  more  respect  for  your  mothers ! '  And  with  that 
she  ran  into  the  house  and  slammed  the  door. 

"I  went  on  around  the  woodhouse  and  there 
was  young  Burton  looking  half  tickled  and  hall 
scared. 

"'Son,'  I  says,  'wherever  did  you  get  your  out- 
rageous ideas  about  women?'  He  began  to  grin  at 
that,  and  he  says: 

"Mr.  Pease,  I  haven't  got  any  ideas  about  women 
at  all.  When  it  comes  to  women  I'm  a  dub.  I'm 
sailing  without  a  chart,  but  I  did  have  a  sort  of  an 
idea  that  when  a  girl  worked  like  the  dickens  for 
people  she  ought  to  have  her  wages.  Seems  I  was 
mistaken,'  he  says.  No  sir,  I  don't  believe  either  of 
those  youngsters  is  drawing  a  cent.  They're  just 
hustling  to  keep  the  Bonners  wrapped  in  cotton  wool 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  231 

and  I  think  they're  an  honour  to  the  neighbourhood. 
That's  the  way  I  feel  about  it." 

The  neighbourhood  was  inclined  to  feel  the  same 
way  and  the  church  festival  precipitated  the  friendli- 
ness that  was  already  in  solution. 

Jean  had  promised  the  young  minister  to  "help," 
so  she  went  around  to  the  church  early  and  offered 
her  services  with  becoming  meekness  and  modesty. 

"Mr.  Hanley  thought  maybe  I  could  do  something 
for  you,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Pettingill,  plump,  gray- 
haired,  red-cheeked,  executive.  Mrs.  Pettingill  took 
the  new  recruit's  measure  with  her  keen  blue  eyes. 

"You  can,"  she  said  promptly.  "Go  and  sell  to 
the  men  everything  you  can  lay  hands  on." 

It  was  almost  too  easy. 

This  was  Jean's  first  church  festival,  but  if  a  church 
festival  was  cousin — no  matter  how  many  times  re- 
moved— to  a  charity  bazaar,  her  foot  was  on  her 
native  heath. 

She  began  on  the  young  men  but  quickly  worked  up 
to  the  older  ones,  leaving  bankruptcy  in  her  wake. 
Elderly  deacons  who  had  come  to  spend  ten  cents  on 
a  plate  of  ice  cream  found  themselves  recklessly,  in- 
explicably, treating  groups  of  women  to  ice  cream  and 
cake,  buying  candy  and  peanuts  for  children,  putting 
their  names  down  as  subscribers  for  the  new  church 
carpet. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEA?w 

The  size  of  the  cake  slices  and  of  the  ice  cream 
portions  shrunk  shamelessly  as  the  evening  wore  on. 

"If  only  we'd  ordered  more  of  everything!" 
groaned  Mrs.  Pettingill  and  her  co-workers. 

When  the  food  supply  ran  low,  Jean  sold  button- 
hole bouquets,  hastily  requisitioned  from  neighbour- 
ing yards.  She  took  orders  for  Mrs.  Bennet's  dough- 
nuts and  Myra  Anderby's  chocolate  fudge.  She 
rashly  promised  to  have  a  church  fair  and  supply 
pink  gingham  rompers.  She  sang  old  English  ballads 
at  fifty  cents  a  ballad — the  purse  made  up  among  the 
crowd.  And  when — having  auctioned  off  the  only 
cake  left  (a  large,  sticky  one,  iced  in  poisonous  green) 
to  the  stingiest  man  in  Green  Ridge,  for  a  price  that 
was  nothing  short  of  highway  robbery — she  looked 
hopefully  around  for  new  worlds  to  conquer,  nothing 
seemed  left  for  barter  except  the  organ,  the  chairs, 
and  the  framed  texts. 

Deacon  Ezra  Johnson,  who  in  a  moment  of 
hypnosis  had  bought  the  green  cake,  confided  to  Mr. 
Hanley,  the  minister,  that  he  had  his  misgivings 
about  auctions  in  the  church. 

"There's  that  matter  of  the  money  changers,  you 
know,"  he  murmured,  but  the  minister  only  laughed. 

"This  is  giving  to  the  Lord,  Deacon,"  he  said  re- 
assuringly. 

The  Ladies'  Aid  Society  had  no  misgivings  what- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  233 

soever — only  gnawing  regret  that  it  had  not  provided 
more  bountifully  for  the  spoiling  of  the  Egyptians. 

As  a  unit,  it  kissed  Jean  Mackaye  good-night  when 
she  started  home. 

"Be  sure  and  come  to  the  meeting  at  Mrs.  Pet- 
tingiU's  Saturday,  so  we  can  plan  about  a  Fair," 
the  women  chorused. 

She  was  no  longer  Mrs.  Bonner's  city  cook.  She 
was  a  Green  Ridge  institution. 

"Aren't  they  darling?"  she  sighed  happily  to 
Teddy  as  he  started  the  car.  "Aren't  they  per- 
fectly darling?" 

"Darling!"  echoed  the  man.  It  was  a  very  fer- 
vent echo.  Hearing  it  without  the  context  one 
might  have  taken  it  for  a  vocative. 

Once  taken  to  the  heart  of  the  neighbourhood,  "the 
Bonners'  young  folks,"  as  they  were  usually  called, 
found  themselves  in  demand.  Teddy's  church* 
festival  career,  though  not  so  meteoric  as  Jean's,  had 
been  eventful.  He  had  hung  Japanese  lanterns. 
He  had  opened  pop  bottles,  he  had  lifted  ice-cream 
freezers,  he  had  carried  heavy  trays  and  tables  and 
chairs. 

"You're  the  handiest  young  man  I  ever  saw," 
Mrs.  Pettingill  had  commented  admiringly. 

"It's  my  profession,"  Teddy  had  reminded  her 
with  modest  pride. 


234  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

In  the  intervals  of  work  he  had  promised  to  join 
the  Grange  and  to  organize  a  baseball  team  and  to 
set  off  the  fireworks  at  the  Fourth  of  July  picnic  and 
to  help  the  Cemetery  Association  clean  up  the 
neglected  graveyard  and  to  go  to  Hartford  with  the 
Better  Roads  Committee. 

In  such  a  fine  glow  of  neighbourly  good  feeling 
was  he  that  if  somebody  had  asked  him  to  lead  the 
next  prayer  meeting  he  would  have  agreed  without 
a  moment's  hesitation;  but  in  the  cold  light  of  the 
day  after  the  festival,  he  took  stock  of  his  promises 
and  smiled  ruefully. 

"This  get-together  business  is  all  very  well,"  he 
remarked  to  the  cook,  "but  when  do  you  and  I  go 
fishing?" 

She  looked  down  at  him  from  dizzy  spiritual 
heights. 

"Ladies'  Aiding  is  going  to  be  my  chosen  sport, 
after  this,  Edward.  I  have  put  away  the  milder 
forms  of  dissipation." 


CHAPTER  XI 

MRS.  MORLEY'S  first  boarder  arrived  shortly  after 
the  Fourth  of  July. 

He  had  been  heralded  by  a  suave,  quiet  young  man 
who  one  day  drove  over  from  Taylorsville,  the  near- 
est station,  stopped  at  the  little  Green  Ridge  post- 
office  and  told  Mrs.  Betts,  the  postmistress'  that 
he  was  looking  for  a  boarding  place  for  an  elderly 
gentleman  who  needed  country  air  and  quiet.  Mrs. 
Betts — so  he  told  Mrs.  Morley  later — assured 
him  that  Mrs.  Morley's  home  was  exactly  what  he 
wanted. 

Mrs.  Morley  looked  gratified  but  modest  and  said 
she  always  tried  to  make  her  boarders  comfortable. 

"Have  you  any  boarders  at  the  moment?"  asked 
the  stranger. 

"No',"  she  hadn't. 

He  nodded  approvingly.  "That's  very  nice,  very 
nice  indeed.  Mr.  Brown  was  in  hopes  he  might 
find  a  place  where  he  would  be  the  only  boarder." 

"But  there  will  be  others  later.  The  last  of  July 
and  August,  there's  always  somebody." 

235 


£36  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Mrs.  Morley  could  not  bind  herself  to  turn  away 
all  comers  because  of  an  exclusive  old  gentlemen. 

The  visitor  moved  a  careless  hand.  "Mr.  Brown 
will  probably  stay  only  a  short  time.  While  he  is 
here  he  will  be  glad  to  pay  a  price  proportioned 
to  what  you  would  make  if  all  of  your  rooms  were 
full.  How  many  boarders  can  you  take?" 

"Four."  Mrs.  Morley's  voice  was  weak  from 
astonishment. 

"Exactly.  Then  Mr.  Brown  will  pay  at  the  rate 
for  four  persons." 

The  landlady's  honest  soul  rebelled.  "I  really 
couldn't,"  she  began. 

"We  will  consider  that  settled."  He  had  a  very 
firm  way  with  him.  "You  will  find  Mr.  Brown  a 
very  pleasant  gentleman  but,  as  I  have  said,  he  is 
greatly  in  need  of  seclusion  and  complete  rest.  His 
eyes  and  his  nerves  are  very  bad  and  he  is  quite 
unequal  to  meeting  strangers— outside  of  your  family 
of  course.  You  will  excuse  him,  if  he  keeps  himself 
very  much  to  himself,  and  realize  that  it  is  matter 
of  health,  not  crankiness.  He  will  arrive  on  the 
twelve-o'clock  train  Thursday,  and  I  will  make 
arrangements  in  the  village  to  have  him  brought 
over,  so  he  will  be  here  for  luncheon.  He  will  find 
everything  very  comfortable  I  am  sure.  Your  rates 
are — you  said?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  237 

"Eight  dollars  a  week." 

"Exactly.  Four  times  eight — thirty-two."  He 
took  out  a  roll  of  bills,  and  handed  the  overwhelmed 
landlady  thirty- two  dollars.  "A  stranger  you  see, 
and  of  course  you  couldn't  know.  Good-morning, 
madam.  A  beautiful  view  you  have  here.  Good- 
morning." 

He  whisked  out  to  the  waiting  motor  car  and  was 
off  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  leaving  Mrs.  Morley  staring 
speechlessly  at  the  money  in  her  hand. 

"He  was  like  machinery,"  she  told  Susan  later. 
"Clip,  clip,  clip — not  a  minute  wasted;  comes,  settles 
things,  goes.  Clip,  clip,  clip!" 

Mr.  Brown  arrived  at  twelve-thirty  on  Thursday, 
according  to  schedule,  and  was  greeted  by  a  nervous 
landlady  whose  anxious  face  relaxed  perceptibly  as 
her  new  boarder  shook  hands  with  her  and  thanked 
her  for  taking  him  in. 

"He's  not  at  all  what  I  expected,"  she  reported  to 
Susan  when  she  had  shown  him  his  rooms  and  left 
him  to  rest  until  dinner  time. 

"I'd  been  looking  for  something  thin  and  snappy. 
Nerves  'most  always  take  them  that  way;  but  he's 
real  stout  and  he  speaks  as  cheerful  and  friendly  as 
can  be.  It's  a  pity  he  has  to  wear  those  huge  dark 
glasses.  You  can't  tell  what  he  rightly  looks  like, 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he's  a  mighty  pleasant- 


238  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

looking  man  when  his  eyes  are  well.  Not  so  old, 
either." 

The  appetite  the  boarder  displayed  at  the 
midday  dinner  completed  his  conquest  of  his 
landlady.  "And  me  figuring  on  gruel  and  soft 
food!"  she  laughed  as  she  gave  him  his  second  piece 
of  pie. 

Mr.  Brown's  face,  or  at  least  the  part  of  his  face 
not  hidden  by  the  big  glasses,  looked  guilty  but  he 
joined  in  the  laugh. 

"It's  often  that  way  with  nervous  cases,"  he  ex- 
plained. "They  need  feeding  up.  I  believe  your 
cooking  will  do  more  than  medicine  for  me,  Mrs. 
Morley." 

The  light  of  battle  dawned  in  the  landlady's  eyes. 
If  what  this  afflicted  man  needed  was  feeding  up, 
she  would  see  that  he  got  what  he  needed. 

"An  old-fashioned  boiled  dinner,  now,"  the  invalid 
suggested.  "I  dare  say  you  can  cook  a  boiled  dinner 
that  tastes  right.  It's  a  thing  I  can't  seem  to  get 
in  town." 

Mrs.  Morley  smiled  the  smile  of  conscious  power. 

"It's  pretty  hearty,"  she  warned;  Mr.  Brown 
waved  the  warning  aside. 

"I  like  my  food  hearty.  There's  a  thing  I  used  to 
have  for  breakfast  when  I  was  a  boy :  Salt  pork,  fried 
crisp  and  brown,  and  some  sort  of  white  gravy — 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  239 

not  a  sauce  you  know,  just  an  honest  gravy — lots 
of  it  poured  over  the  pork  and  then  some.  And 
boiled  potatoes." 

Mrs.  Morley's,  thin,  wrinkled  face  was  all  aglow. 

"My  land,  man,  it's  going  to  be  a  treat — a  real 
treat — to  cook  for  you." 

"And  doughnuts."  The  pleasant  mouth  below 
the  disfiguring  glasses  was  smiling  boyishly.  "And 
pie — plenty  of  pie.  This  is  a  pie  to  put  a  soul  under 
the  ribs  of  death,  madam." 

The  flattered  pie  maker  smoothed  back  her  scant 
blonde  hair  with  both  hands — her  habitual  gesture 
in  moments  of  great  excitement.  The  hair  was 
already  skinned  back  from  her  forehead  so  tightly 
that  it  drew  her  eyebrows  upward.  Everything 
about  Mrs.  Morley  was  under  more  or  less  strain. 
Life's  demands  upon  her  had  always  been  just  a 
little  more  than  she  could  meet  easily,  though  they 
had  been  met  pluckily,  and  to  the  effort  demanded 
of  her,  she  had  added  the  free  tribute  of  a  generous 
and  unselfish  heart 

"Lucilla  Morley,"  Mrs.  Pettingill  had  once  said 
to  her  in  a  moment  of  friendly  exasperation,  "you're 
good  to  everybody  but  yourself.  You'll  let  anybody 
on  earth  impose  on  you.  It's  all  nonsense.  I  tell 
you  those  that  will,  may." 

And  Mrs.  Morley,  quite  missing  the  point,  but 


240  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

catching  at  the  last  phrase,  had  smiled  contentedly 
into  her  friend's  face. 

"Yes;  we  can  always  help,  if  we  want  to.  There's 
always  some  way  opened  up,  so's  you  can.  Isn't  it 
splendid,  Sarah?" 

As  for  cooking  boiled  dinners  and  salt  pork  and 
pie  for  a  man  whose  nerves  needed  them  and  whose 
appetite  clamoured  for  them,  and  being  paid  gener- 
ously for  doing  it,  Mrs.  Morley's  cup  of  happiness 
was  full.  Another  drop,  and  it  would  have  spilled 
over. 

"Susan,"  she  said,  when  the  boarder  had  retired  to 
his  own  room,  "I'm  a  wicked  woman — doubting  and 
fussing  and  looking  up  my  arrowroot- jelly  recipe — 
and  the  Lord  having  a  fine  hearty  eater  picked  out 
for  me  all  the  time!" 

Susan  laid  aside  her  sewing  to  help  in  clearing  the 
table. 

"The  boarder  that  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  your 
cooking  'd  ought  to  choke  to  death  on  his  first  meal 
here,"  she  said  vehemently,  but  Mrs.  Morley  shook 
her  head. 

"A  man's  got  a  right  to  expect  mighty  good 
victuals  at  thirty-two  dollars  a  week.  Seems  as  if  a 
boiled  dinner  wasn't  hardly  dressy  enough.  I'm 
going  to  look  through  the  old  copies  of  the  Ladies' 
Companion  for  some  of  those  trimmed-up  dishes 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  241 

with  cut-out  eggs  and  olives,  and  roses  and  paper 
frills  and  things  on  them." 

All  through  that  first  afternoon  Mrs.  Morley  and 
Susan  tiptoed  about  the  house  and  talked  in  hushed 
voices.  A  boarder  with  frayed  nerves  needed 
absolute  quiet,  undisturbed  repose  and  they  were 
determined  he  should  have  them. 

"It's  lucky  Molly  is  off  with  Jim  or  down  at  the 
Bonners'  most  of  the  time,"  Molly's  mother  said, 
thankfully.  "She  won't  bother  him,  except  on  rainy 
days." 

"Jim  can  play  in  the  hay-mow  with  her  when  it 
rains,"  Mrs.  Morley  suggested. 

"Yes  she  loves  the  hay-mow." 

And  while  they  planned  Molly's  suppression,  that 
quite  irrepressible  young  person  was  introducing  the 
nervous  Mr.  Brown  to  the  new  calf,  and  the  spotted 
cow,  and  the  chicken  with  the  lame  leg,  and  the  pig 
that  "liked  to  be  dirty,"  and  Ebenezer  the  cat  that 
was  "just  so  stubborn  he  wouldn't  have  kittens" 
though  "ve  uwer  old  cat  vat  got  lost  used  to  have 
lots  and  lots  of  lovely  ones." 

For  a  man  with  a  passion  for  seclusion,  the  boarder 
seemed  wonderfully  resigned  to  companionship.  He 
had  found  his  room  comfortable  but  lonely,  and, 
wandering  down  to  the  front  porch,  had  been 


242  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

promptly  annexed  by  Molly  who  had  been  preparing 
to  run  away — but  suddenly  discovered  that  home 
was  a  place  of  absorbing  interest. 

"Are  you  ve  new  boarder,"  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

He  admitted  that  he  was. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  little  girls  eiver?"  She 
was  not  reproachful.  She  merely  wanted  to  know 
the  length  and  breadth  of  his  prejudices. 

"Muwer  said  you  didn't  want  to  see  peoples,"  she 
explained,  "but  five  going  on  six  isn't  a  people,  is  it?  " 

"  Five  going  on  six  is  a  splendid  age."  The  boarder 
was  profoundly  serious.  "/  always  want  to  see 
fives-going-on-sixes." 

She  chuckled  happily. 

"Ven  I'll  show  you.     Come  on." 

She  showed  him,  and  when  he  had  seen  all  of  the 
family  except  Jimmy,  and  the  big  toad  that  lived 
under  the  stone  well-curb  and  wouldn't  come  out  for 
all  Molly's  coaxing,  she  took  him  down  to  the  garden 
where  Jimmy  was  hoeing  corn. 

"Jimmy  ain't  a  people  eiver,"  she  announced  cheer- 
fully. "You'll  like  Jimmy  awful  much." 

He  did  like  Jimmy  awful  much;  and  Jimmy,  after 
the  first  few  moments  of  painful  embarrassment, 
liked  him. 

"Have  to  hoe?"  asked  the  boarder. 

"Nope." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  243 

"Well  then  come  along." 

The  three  went  down  the  lane  and  into  the  woods. 
When  they  came  back  to  the  house  through  the  long 
shadows  of  the  late  afternoon,  they  were  friends. 
Even  at  a  distance,  Mrs.  Morley,  standing  in  the 
kitchen  doorway,  could  see  that.  It  was  in  the  way 
Molly  swung  on  the  boarder's  hand,  in  the  way 
Jimmy  grinned  up  into  the  boarder's  face,  in  the  way 
the  boarder's  lips  were  smiling  below  the  disfiguring 
brown  glasses. 

"Well  for  land's  sake!"  Mrs.  Morley 's  astonish- 
ment brought  Susan  to  her  side. 

"Muwer,"  Molly  called  joyfully,  "ve  boarder 
knows  about  Indians.  He  tells  us — an'  whistles — 
an'  sling  sots  an'  'doodle  bug,  doodle  bug'  an'  every- 
fing- 

"You  children'd  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
selves." Mrs.  Morley  tried  to  be  severe  but  was  only 
helplessly  reproachful. 

"Mr.  Brown,  if  I'd  had  any  idea  they  were  pester- 
ing you— 

"They  weren't,"  the  boarder  was  emphatic  about 
it.  For  a  nervous  wreck,  as  Susan  remarked  to  Jean 
Mackaye  when  she  strolled  down  later  in  the  evening, 
he  had  a  very  boyish  way  with  him. 

Jean  was  curious  about  the  boarder.  Everybody 
in  the  neighbourhood  was  curious  about  the  boarder. 


244  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

The  story  of  his  nerves  and  his  distaste  for  society  and 
his  thirty -two  dollars  a  week  had  travelled  to  the  re- 
motest end  of  Green  Ridge,  and  beyond.  Taylors- 
ville  hummed  with  him.  Even  in  Wilkesbury,  ten 
miles  away,  conversation  began  and  ended  with  him. 
The  Ridge  itself  was  not  only  curious  about  him  but 
proud  of  him.  A  man  as  rich  and  nervous  as  Mrs. 
Morley's  boarder  conferred  distinction  upon  the 
neighbourhood . 

Mrs.  Morley  herself  became  a  storm  centre  of 
gossip.  Not  that  the  good  woman  knowingly 
gossiped.  She  did  not,  but  wherever  she  went, 
gossip  swirled  round  about  her.  At  the  Ladies'  Aid 
meetings,  at  the  sewing  circle,  in  the  church  vestibule, 
she  was  the  centre  of  an  interested  and  slightly 
anxious  group.  Neighbours  ran  in  to  visit  with 
her,  early  and  late.  Invitations  showered  upon 
her. 

Being  but  human,  she  sunned  herself  in  this  sudden 
popularity  and,  being  the  kindest  of  women,  she 
tried  to  do  what  was  expected  of  her  and  supply  new 
data  about  her  boarder  from  day  to  day. 

Nothing  that  she  told  was  ill-natured;  ill  nature 
was  not  in  Mrs.  Morley.  But  Green  Ridge  knew 
when  Mr.  Brown  went  to  bed  and  when  he  got  up, 
how  he  liked  his  coffee,  what  he  thought  about  city 
shortcake,  how  many  cans  of  water  he  used  for  his 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  245 

morning  bath,  and  how  high  he  opened  his  bedroom 
window  at  night.  The  colour  of  his  pyjamas  was  no 
secret  from  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society,  and  the  fact  that 
the  pyjamas  were  of  silk,  shook  the  Ridge  from  Cedar 
Brook  to  Cooper's  Landing. 

The  number  of  Mrs.  Morley's  visitors  swelled  and 
swelled.  She  had  always  been  a  hospitable  soul  and 
neighbours  had  dropped  in  upon  her  whenever  they 
felt  so  inclined,  sure  of  a  welcome;  but  now  they  came 
on  every  possible  pretext  and  without  any  pretext. 
Some  of  them,  like  Mrs.  Pettingill,  were  perfectly 
frank  about  the  motive  for  frequent  visits. 

"It's  a  pity  if  I  can't  run  into  Lucilla  Morley's  for  a 
bit  of  gossip  about  her  boarder  without  taking  her  a 
batch  of  fresh-raised  rolls,  or  borrowing  her  Indian- 
pudding  recipe,  or  pretending  I've  come  to  ask  her 
what  she'd  do  if  her  chickens  had  pip,"  Mrs.  Pettin- 
gill said  in  high  disgust  with  Ridge  diplomacy.  "I 
go  down  and  say:  'Well  Lucilla,  what's  your  Rocke- 
feller sensitive  plant  been  doing  lately?'  And  we 
have  a  good  comfortable  talk  about  him  and  then  I 
come  away.  He  don't  seem  to  do  much  but  fool 
around  with  those  two  young  ones,  though.  Lucilla 
says  Jim  and  Molly  are  crazy  about  him,  and  he 
wants  them  around  all  the  time.  Molly  may  be  his 
idea  of  a  nerve  quieter,  but  she  isn't  mine.  Jim,  now, 
he's  an  understanding  little  chap.  He  can  keep  quiet 


246  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

when  you  want  him  to,  but  Molly — she's  about  as 
restful  as  a  terrier  pup,  and  as  cute,  too." 

Mr.  Brown  was  riot  so  interested  in  all  the  neigh- 
bours as  all  the  neighbours  were  in  him;  but  he  was  al- 
ways willing  to  listen  to  Jimmy's  and  Molly's  graphic 
descriptions  of  Ridge  characters,  Ridge  happenings, 
and  Ridge  ways;  and,  from  the  first,  he  showed  a 
curiosity  about  certain  persons. 

"No  city  summer  folk  around  here,  I  suppose?" 
he  said  to  Jimmy,  on  the  afternoon  of  their  first  meet- 
ing. 

"Nope."  Jim  was  notching  a  willow  whistle  of  a 
very  superior  kind  to  which  the  boarder  had  intro- 
duced him  and  was  consequently  absent-minded,  but 
when  the  tension  relaxed  he  remembered  the  Bonners 
and  mentioned  them. 

"Bonners?  Who  are  they?"  Mr.  Brown  was 
lazily  indifferent  but  seemed  to  feel  the  necessity  of 
making  conversation. 

"Oh  they're  nuts."  Jim  liked  the  Bonners,  but 
youth  is  blithely  irreverent. 

"Nuts?" 

"Yep — sort  of  loony.  Not  crazy  you  know,  but 
writin'  all  the  time  and  don't  know  anything's  hap- 
pened since  year  before  last." 

"Oh,  I  see — literary  folk.  Any  young  people  in 
the  family?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  247 

"Nope.  They're  so  absent-minded  they  forgot  to 
have  any." 

The  boarder  laughed.  "And  they're  the  only  city 
people  around  here?  No  other  boarders  like  me?  " 

Jim  tried  the  whistle  with  triumphant  results. 

"Nope.     Ain't  she  a  screecher  though?" 

Mr.  Brown's  nerves  might,  presumably,  have  pro- 
tested against  the  shrill  clamour,  but  he  only  ad- 
mitted that  she  was  a  screecher.  There  was  a 
puzzled  look  in  the  eyes  from  which  he  had  removed 
the  disfiguring  spectacles. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "if  there  is  another  Green 
Ridge  in  Connecticut." 

Jimmy  did  not  know — or  care.  He  was  practising 
what  he  fondly  believed  to  be  "Tipperary"  and  ab- 
sorbed in  the  effort. 

Molly,  who  having  finished  burying  a  dead  beetle 
with  appropriate  ceremony  was  for  the  moment  un- 
occupied, relieved  Mr.  Brown  of  the  conversational 
burden. 

"  An' vere  was  a  mouse  in  Mrs.  Bonner's  room,"  she 
said,  going  back  to  the  last  word  that  had  caught  her 
attention.  If  they  were  going  to  talk  about  the 
Bonners  why  not  tell  dramatic  things  about  them? 
Molly's  taste  m  to  the  dramatic. 

"An'  Jean  was  'fraid  of  ve  mouse,  and  Mrs.  Bon- 
ner  went  up  on  ve  chair,  an'  I  ran  got  Teddy  an' '* 


248  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Teddy?    Teddy  who?" 

Mr.  Brown  sat  up  suddenly — lively  interest  in 
every  line  of  his  face. 

Molly  eyed  him  with  disapproval.  Her  climax  if 
not  spoiled,  was  marred;  but  she  did  her  best  in  spite 
of  the  interruption. 

"An5  ve  mouse  ran  under  ve  table  an'  Teddy  came 
an'  he  took  the  poker,  an'  Jean  said,  *  Oh,  don't ! '  an' 
Mrs.  Bonner  said,  'Oh,  don't!'  an'  Teddy  said,  'Well, 
what  d'you  want  me  to  do?'  an'  Jean  said,  'It'd  make 
me  sick,'  an'  Mrs.  Bonner  said,  'You'll  have  to 
catch  it';  an'  ven  Teddy  laughed  an'  laughed,  an' 
he  took  ve  table  cover  an'  he  ran  round  an'  round,  an' 
ve  mouse  ran  round  an'  round,  an'  Teddy  froo  ve 
table  cover  over  it,  an'  ven  he  picked  it  up,  an'  it 
wiggled  Jean  said,  'Oh  ve  poor  fing,'  an'  Mrs.  Bonner 
said,  '  Put  it  out  doors ' ;  but  Teddy  took  it  out  to  ve 
woods'ed  an'  drownded  it — only  he  said  I  mustn't 
tell." 

She  came  to  a  full  stop  and  Mr.  Brown  repeated 
his  question. 

"Who's  Teddy?"  he  asked.  This  time  Molly 
was  willing  to  answer. 

"He's  just  Teddy,"  she  explained  helpfully. 

The  man  turned  to  Jim  who  met  the  appeal  by 
putting  the  screecher  carefully  in  his  inside  pocket 
and  settling  down  to  the  lesser  joy  of  conversation. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  249 

She  means  Mr.  Burton.     He's  the  Bonners'  hired 


man." 


A  wave  of  emotion  passed  over  Mr.  Brown's  face. 
He  opened  his  mouth  but  no  words  came;  so  he  closed 
it  again  and,  taking  out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  his 
brow  carefully,  then  put  on  his  goggles. 

"Light  hurt  you?"  Jimmy  asked  sympathetically. 

"A  little,"  admitted  the  Boarder.  "This  Burton 
is  hired  man  for  the — the  nuts?" 

"Yep.  And  say,  he's  the  greatest  you  ever  saw." 
Jimmy  was  launched  upon  a  favourite  topic.  "He's 
got  the  finest  garden,  and  he  could  make  a  car  skip 
rope  if  he  wanted  to,  and  he  can  mend  anything, 
and  Peter  Pease  says  he's  the  best  natural  hand  with 
cattle  he  ever  knew.  Never  drove  a  yoke  in  his 
life  till  he  came  here  and  now  he  can  make  those  con- 
trary big  red  ones  of  Mr.  Pettingill's  pull  the  whole 
of  Cedar  Hill  if  he  wanted  to.  And  shoot!  Say, 
he  can  hit  anything!  He's  got  a  rifle  club  down  at 
the  old  mill  but  I  ain't  old  enough  yet.  He's  goin' 
to  put  me  in  a  scrub  ball  team  though — left  field. 
It's  a  pity  you  wasn't  here  for  the  Fourth.  Gee! 
but  we  walloped  the  Wilkesbury  team.  Teddy  he'd 
been  coachin'  and  he  pitched  for  us.  Some  pitcher! 
I  tell  you — and  he  was  tired  at  that,  because  he'd 
been  helpin'  fix  up  Grange  Hall  for  the  meetin'  and 
doin'  most  of  it  himself — made  the  best  speech  too. 


250  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

He  said  we  was  a  punk  bunch  of  Americans  com- 
pared to  Washington  and  those  guys  and  that  we'd 
better  get  up  and  hump  ourselves,  and  that  a  good 
way  to  start  'd  be  keepin'  out  the  saloon  that's  tryin' 
to  come  in." 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  the  listening  Mr.  Brown, 
feebly. 

"He  cooked  that  saloon  man's  goose  all  right,  all 
right!"  exulted  Jimmy.  "They  got  up  a  committee 
and  all  the  men  was  on  it — except  some  that  wasn't 
sober  enough.  Fourth  of  July  and  everything  you 
know. 

"He's  got  'em  goin'  about  good  roads,  too.  Mr. 
Anderson  he  started  it,  but  Teddy's  whoopin'  it  up. 
He's  the  greatest  one  at  whoopin'  things  up." 

A  queer  smile  appeared  below  Mr.  Brown's  goggles 
and  spread. 

"Yes,  I  can  believe  it.  I  can  quite  believe  it. 
As  a  whooper  up,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he's  in  the 
front  rank." 

"Hungry!"  announced  Molly.  Jim  took  a  look 
at  the  sky  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Great  Scott!  it's  past  supper  time!" 

He  grabbed  Molly's  hand  and  set  off  hastily  to- 
ward home,  the  Boarder  following  at  a  more  lei- 
surely pace  and  evidently  deep  in  thought,  but  at 
the  end  of  the  lane,  Mr.  Brown  shook  off  his  thought- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  251 

ful  mood,  overtook  the  two  who  were  scampering 
ahead  of  him  and  met  Mrs.  Morley  and  Susan  with 
imperturbable  calm. 

Not  until  the  next  afternoon  did  he  again  refer  to 
the  Bonners'  hired  man.  Then  he  strolled  into  the 
kitchen  where  Mrs.  Morley  was  puttering  about 
and  dropped  into  the  big  rocking  chair  by  the  win- 
dow. 

"Smells  so  good,  I  couldn't  keep  away,"  he  said 
sniffing  enjoyably. 

"  Ginger  bread — soft  ginger  bread.  You  sit  right 
there  a  few  minutes  and  I'll  give  you  some  of  it 
hot — with  a  glass  of  real  rich  milk.  Mr.  Morley 
used  to  think  there  wasn't  anything  like  hot  ginger 
bread  and  milk  with  the  cream  stirred  in." 

"Mr.  Morley  was  a  man  of  judgment."  The  man 
by  the  window  spoke  in  his  usual  cheerful  way,  and 
rocked  contentedly  as  he  waited  for  his  ginger  bread 
but  if  so  much  of  his  face  had  not  been  hidden  even 
Mrs.  Morley  might  have  noticed  a  shade  of  anxiety 
in  his  expression. 

"Jim  tells  me  you've  got  some  city  neighbours," 
he  said. 

Mrs.  Morley  opened  the  oven  door,  looked  in, 
shook  her  head  and  closed  the  door  again. 

"Not  quite  done.  What  were  you  saying?  Oh 
yes,  the  Bonners !  They're  as  nice  people  as  you  ever 


252  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

saw,  but  sort  of  queer  and  flighty  you  know.  They 
do  say  writing  mostly  always  takes  people  that  way. 
It's  lucky  they've  got  somebody  to  take  good  care  of 
them." 

The  Boarder's  chair  stopped  swaying. 

"Yes;  they're  lucky,  if  they  have  somebody  to 
do  that.  Who  does  it?" 

Mrs.  Morley  turned  the  stove  damper  and  looked 
at  the  clock. 

"I'm  afraid  that  ginger  bread  won't  be  as  light 
as  usual.  It's  baking  too  slow." 

"You  were  saying  there  was  someone  to  look  after 
your  literary  neighbours,"  prompted  Mr.  Brown 
gently. 

"Oh,  yes.  Well  they've  got  the  best  help  I  ever 
saw — I  don't  care  where  the  next  comes  from.  You 
hear  such  a  lot  about  the  servant  trouble  nowadays 
that  you'd  think  there  wasn't  a  decent  one  on  earth, 
but  look  at  the  Bonners!  They've  got  a  man  that 
can't  be  beat." 

"Yes,  Jim  spoke  of  him." 

"He's  as  fine  a  young  fellow  as  ever  stepped 
and  the  way  he  works  to  keep  things  going  down 
there!  Well,  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  The  Bonners 
haven't  got  any  money  this  summer,  but  bless  you 
they  don't  need  any — not  with  Edward  and  Jean 
there." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  253 

The  rocking  chair  creaked  violently  once  and 
steadied  itself. 

"Ah,  yes;  Jean?" 

It  was  half  exclamation,  half  question.  Mrs. 
Morley  answered  the  question. 

"Jean  Mackaye.  She's  a  perfect  wonder.  The 
greatest  worker — and  smart  and  sensible  and  pretty ! 
My  land,  that  girl's  so  pretty  it's  no  wonder  every 
manbody  from  the  minister  down  to  Jim's  crazy 
about  her." 

"A  relative  of  the  Bonners?" 

I    "No;  she's  their  cook." 
The  man  in  the  rocking  chair  strangled  a  violent 
exclamation;  but  Mrs.  Morley  did  not  notice  it,  for  a 
smell  of  burning  had  suddenly  filled  the  air  and  she 
hurried  toward  the  stove,  lamenting. 

"That  oven's  bewitched  to-day.  First  it  won't 
bake,  and  then  it  burns,  and  there's  no  knowing  what 
it'll  do.  I'll  have  to  have  the  man  over  from  Bor- 
Ion's.  Might  have  been  worse  though — just  scorched 
a  mite  along  one  edge.  I'll  cut  yours  off  the  other 
side." 

The  Boarder  sat  quietly  looking  out  of  the  window 
while  she  filled  a  glass  with  milk  and  cream,  cut  some 
squares  of  ginger  bread,  and  set  the  plate  and  glass 
on  the  spotless  kitchen  table.  His  lips  were  closed 
in  a  thin  straight  line  and  the  knuckles  of  the  hands 


254  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

that  grasped  the  chair  arms  showed  white,  but  th( 
big  dark  goggles  hid  whatever  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Maybe  you'd  rather  take  it  out  on  the  porch,' 
Mrs.  Morley  suggested. 

"No;  I  like  a  kitchen."     He  spoke  pleasantly 
smoothly,  but  the  usual  genial  ring  was  not  in  his 
voice.     He  ate  the  ginger  bread,  very  deliberately 
drank  the  milk. 

"Wonderful  ginger  bread.  You  certainly  are  a 
cook." 

He  winced  a  little  on  the  last  word,  but  smiled 
at  his  flattered  landlady  and  talked  for  a  few  mo- 
ments before  going  to  his  room. 

"I  sort  of  feel  as  though  that  hot  ginger  bread 
wasn't  the  thing  for  Mr.  Brown's  stomach,"  Mrs. 
Morley  confided  to  Susan  that  night  when  they  were 
locking  up.  "He  didn't  seem  just  like  himself  at 
supper." 

By  the  next  morning,  however,  any  ill  effect  of  the 
ginger  bread  seemed  to  have  worn  off.  The  Boarder 
was  himself  again  and  he  showed  only  an  amiable 
interest  in  the  literary  couple  and  their  extraordinary 
"help." 

The  Bonners'  help,  like  everyone  else  on  the 
Ridge,  took  an  interest  in  Mr.  Brown. 

"Funny  about  him,"  Jean  explained  to  Edward. 
"He's  the  original  Boojum — just  'silently  vanishes 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  255 

awayr*  whenever  anybody  goes  near,  and  yet  Mrs. 
Morley  and  Susan  say  he's  the  nicest  friendliest  soul 
imaginable  and  Jim  and  Molly  are  wild  about  him." 

"Never  laid  eyes  on  the  chap  myself."  Edward 
was  training  tomato  vines  and  not  free  to  give  his 
entire  attention  to  gossip  but  he  lent  a  willing  ear. 
"But  from  what  Jimmy  tells  me,  the  old  gentle- 
man's a  good  sort  even  if  his  nerves  are  jumpy." 

"Yes,  they're  all  devoted  to  him  up  there.  Susan 
says  he's  jolly  as  a  boy  and  Mrs.  Morley  says  he's 
the  heartiest  eater  she's  ever  boarded.  Doesn't 
sound  like  jumpy  nerves,  does  it?" 

She  stood  and  watched  the  tomato  pruning  for  a 
while  in  silence. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  finally,  "I  think  there's 
something  awfully  queer  about  that  man — seeming 
so  well,  but  being  afraid  to  meet  anybody,  and  wear- 
ing goggles,  and  pulling  his  hat  brim  down  and  his 
coat  collar  up  whenever  he  goes  out  and " 

Teddy  turned  from  his  work  to  grin  at  her. 

"Well,  Miss  Sherlock?" 

She  blushed  guiltily,  but  stood  to  her  guns. 

"I  don't  care.  It  is  funny;  and  Jim  says  he 
always  takes  off  his  goggles  as  soon  as  they  get  away 
from  the  house  and  the  road  and  doesn't  seem  to 
need  them  at  all." 

"  He's  probably  Jack  the  Ripper."   Having  thrown 


256  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

out  this  helpful  suggestion,  Edward  went  back  to  his 
tomatoes. 

Men,  Jean  reflected,  had  no  imaginations.  They 
always  refused  to  take  a  thing  seriously  until  after  it 
had  happened — and  this  particular  man  seldom  took 
it  seriously  even  then.  Still  she  had  an  idea  that 
he  could  be  serious.  If  he  cared  enormously  about 
anything  he'd  probably  be  as  obstinate  and  as  des- 
perately in  earnest  as  any  one.  He  didn't  have  that 
chin  of  his  for  nothing,  even  if  his  eyes  did  smile  most 
of  the  time. 

All  the  same  there  was  something  queer  about  Mrs. 
Morley's  boarder  and  Edward  had  not  shown  proper 
respect  for  her  opinion;  so  she  let  him  severely  alone 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  he,  poor  owlish  mole  that  he 
was,  wondered  helplessly  what  he  had  done  to  be,  as 
he  classically  put  it,  "in  Dutch  with  the  Queen.'* 

Whatever  the  modern  young  man  may  feel, 
when  fathoms  deep  in  love,  it  does  not  run  to  Attic 
prose. 

Not  only  at  the  Bonners,  but  all  up  and  down  the 
Ridge,  Mr.  Brown,  unknowingly,  brought  about  a 
pronounced  sex  cleavage.  The  women  having  found 
out  all  that  his  landlady  knew  about  him,  resented 
the  blank  wall  that  rose  before  their  curiosity.  Not 
able  to  secure  facts  they  tried  to  satisfy  themselves 
with  fancy  and  the  gossip  that  had  at  first  been 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  257 

spirited  but  kindly  rapidly  veered  round  to  dark 
suspicion. 

"Nerves  nothing!"  Mrs.  Pettingill  said  flatly. 
"He  eats  like  a  horse  and  he's  fat  and  he  tramps  all 
over  the  woods  with  the  children  and  he's  cheerful  and 
good  natured  and  he  likes  to  visit  with  Mrs.  Morley 
and  Susan  and  Molly  and  Jim  when  there  aren't  any 
strangers  around.  Far  as  I  can  see,  all  his  nerves  run 
to  is  wearing  outrageous  big  dark  glasses  and  turning 
up  his  coat  collar  and  running  away  from  company. 
If  you  ask  me,  I'd  say  that  looks  more  like  guilt  than 
like  nerves.  You  mark  my  words.  That  man's  done 
something" 

The  women  all  marked  her  words — and  believed 
them.  Lucilla  Morley's  boarder  had  done  something. 
They  agreed  upon  that  but  opinions  varied  as  to  what 
he  had  done.  Even  Mrs.  Pettingill,  sturdy  soul  that 
she  was,  did  not  go  so  far  as  murder.  Robbery, 
arson,  kidnapping,  and  other  popular  forms  of  crime 
were  brought  up  and  discussed,  but  the  consensus  of 
opinion  leaned  toward  something  less  crude,  some- 
thing high  class — "the  sort  of  thing  a  gentleman 
might  do,  if  he  was  pushed  too  far,"  as  Mrs.  Rollins 
put  it.  "Of  course  I've  never  seen  him  close  to," 
she  added,  "but  he's  shaped  a  good  deal  like  a  bank 
president." 

At  first  the  men  rallied  to  the  defence  of  one  who 


258  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

was  a  fellow  man,  albeit  a  stranger.  There's  a  sex 
solidarity  among  men  that  women  lack.  Masculine 
Green  Ridge  laughed  at  feminine  Green  Ridge  anc 
talked  about  gossip  and  mare's  nests  and  the 
righteousness  and  good  sense  of  minding  one's  own 
business;  but  no  one  in  the  neighbourhood  had 
any  really  interesting  business  of  his  own  to  mind,  and 
the  average  man  loves  gossip  as  well  as  the  average 
woman  does,  though  he  seldom  has  the  initiative  to 
start  it  and  usually  saves  his  face  by  allowing  his  wife 
to  collect  it  for  him. 

So  the  men  listened  even  while  they  laughed,  and 
gradually  began  to  listen  without  laughing. 

Things  did  look  suspicious,  they  admitted  to  each 
other.  The  stranger  acted  mighty  queer.  It  wasn't 
natural  to  pay  thirty-two  dollars  for  board  you  could 
get  at  eight — not  if  you  came  by  your  money  honestly 
and  weren't  afraid  to  have  other  boarders  in  the  house 
watching  you.  He  must  be  hiding  for  some  reason  or 
other.  You  couldn't  figure  it  out  any  other  way,  and 
the  Ridge  was  a  first-rate  place  for  hiding  away — six 
miles  off  the  railroad  and  not  even  a  main  highway 
running  through.  A  fellow'd  have  been  safer  right 
there  than  in  Canada,  if  only  he'd  had  the  sense  not 
to  go  disguising  himself  and  dodging  around  and  set- 
ting folks  to  wondering. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  any  Green  Ridge  jury 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  259 

would  have  sentenced  the  mysterious  Mr.  Brown  to 
at  least  ten  years  without  even  listening  to  the 
prosecuting  attorney. 

And  in  the  meantime,  Mr.  Brown,  unconscious  of 
the  futility  of  his  disguise  and  seclusion  went  on  eat- 
ing more  than  was  good  for  him  and  wandering  about 
the  woods  and  fields  with  Jim  and  Molly,  and  rocking 
lazily  in  the  big  chair  by  the  kitchen  window,  or  in  its 
twin  on  the  side  porch,  and  visiting  sociably  with  Mrs. 
Morley  and  Susan. 

Once  in  a  while  he  went  for  a  walk  alone.  One 
of  these  solitary  walks  led  him  past  a  field  where 
Teddy  Burton  was  hauling  stone  for  wall  mending 
and  he  stopped  in  the  shade,  at  half  a  field's  distance 
from  the  scene  of  action,  to  watch  the  work.  He 
knew  that  the  man  who  was  handling  Farmer  Pettin- 
gill's  "contrary  red  steers"  and  a  stone  drag  and  a 
fine  assortment  of  Connecticut  granite  must  be  Teddy 
Burton,  because  Jim  had  mentioned,  at  the  dinner 
table,  that  Teddy  was  working  down  in  the  lot  by 
the  brook;  and  he  evidently  approved  of  the  way 
the  Bonners'  hired  man  was  doing  his  job,  for  he 
smiled  and  swore  softly  over  each  point  scored 
against  the  steers  and  grunted  sympathetically  every 
time  Teddy  heaved  a  heavy  stone  into  place  in  the 
wall. 

"Well  the  damned  young  scoundrel!"  he  said,  as  he 


260  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

turned  at  last  toward  home.  "The  damned  young 
scoundrel!"  The  words  were  not  highly  flattering 
but  the  tone  in  which  they  were  uttered  and  the  grin 
that  accompanied  them  smacked  loudly  of  approval. 
j  Whatever  his  criminal  record,  he  seemed  to  be  a  man 
who  appreciated  honest  work  and  youthful  en- 
thusiasm. 

After  that  he  made  rather  a  point  of  watching 
Teddy  work  when  opportunity  offered.  He  even 
overcame  his  dislike  for  the  public  road  sufficiently 
to  walk  down  past  the  Bonners'  house  now  and  then 
and  turn  keen,  observing  eyes  upon  the  garden  and 
lawn  and  outbuildings. 

"  Hinge  off  the  barn  door.  Shiftless !  Shiftless ! " 
he  commented  one  day;  but,  when,  the  next  afternoon 
he  strolled  that  way  again  and  saw  a  new  hinge  in 
place,  he  chuckled,  rammed  his  hands  deeper  into  his 
pockets,  and  swore  once  more — cheerfully,  proudly. 
Mr.  Brown  was  a  profane  man — but  what  can  one 
expect  from  the  criminal  classes? 

There  was  considerable  talk  of  the  Bonners'  handy 
man  in  Mrs.  Morley's  family  circle  during  those  days. 
In  one  way  or  another  the  conversation  usually 
drifted  around  to  him  and  the  boarder  showed  a 
lively  interest  in  the  subject. 

"Like  to  hear  of  a  young  man  who  takes  hold  like 
that,"  he  would  say  beamingly,  and  Mrs.  Morley  and 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  261 

Susan  would  bear  down  more  heavily  on  the  loud 
pedal. 

"For  you  can't  tell,"  Mrs.  Morley  said  to  Susan, 
"Mr.  Brown's  a  rich  man,  and  they  take  notions,  and 
Edward'll  be  out  of  a  job  when  the  Bonners  go  back 
to  town.  It  won't  do  any  harm  to  praise  him  up, 
even  if  nothing  comes  of  it." 

They  praised  up  Jean  too,  but  feminine  virtues 
appeared  to  leave  Mr.  Brown  cold,  even  irritated 
him. 

"A  very  remarkable  young  woman,  I've  no  doubt." 

That  was  the  highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm  to  which 
their  tales  of  Jean  could  move  him,  and  ice  tinkled  in 
his  voice. 

"Seems  as  if  he  had  a  scunner  against  women." 
Mrs.  Morley  was  grieved  over  the  flaw  in  an  other- 
wise admirable  boarder,  and  eager  to  find  excuse  for 
it.  She  was  always  eager  to  find  excuses  for  human 
failings.  "Like  as  not  it's  a  woman  that  upset  his 


nerves." 


Upon  second  thought  she  did  not  quite  like  the 
sound  of  that  and  hastened  to  amend  it.  "His  wife 
you  know.  Maybe  she's  left  him.  They're  always 
doing  it  in  cities." 

"  You  don't  have  to  leave  a  man  to  upset  his  nerves. 
Lots  of  women  do  it  by  staying  right  at  home." 
**Hisan  spoke  with  authority.  A  general  house 


262  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

worker  has  opportunity  to  study  the  ways  of  wives 
and  husbands.  "But  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Brown's 
set  against  women,"  she  went  on.  "He's  nice  as  can 
be  to  you  and  me  and  he's  interested  about  the  other 
women  folks  in  the  neighbourhood.  Don't  you  re- 
member how  he  laughed  when  you  told  him  about 
Mrs.  Meyers  having  every  disease  she  reads  about  in 
the  papers,  and  about  Mrs.  Pettingill  forgetting  to 
take  her  crimps  out  of  the  curlers  and  going  to  church 
that  way?  It's  just  Jean  he  don't  like  to  hear  about. 
Maybe  he  thinks  working-out  girls  aren't  worth 
noticing." 

Mrs.  Morley  rushed  to  her  boarder's  defence. 

"Now,  Susan,  he  isn't  a  bit  that  kind.  You  know 
he  isn't.  It's  just  that  he  hasn't  seen  Jean,  and 
thinks  she's  only  a  pretty  flighty  young  thing.  If  he 
could  meet  her  once,  he'd  be  interested  fast  enough, 
but  she  won't  come  near  since  he's  here.  She  says 
dodging  visitors  won't  help  frazzled  nerves." 

It  was  not  altogether  consideration  for  Mr. 
Brown's  nerves  that  kept  Jean  away.  She  was  busy 
at  home. 

Running  a  house  and  family  on  a  system  of  rigid 
economy  was,  she  found,  a  very  different  thing  from 
doing  it  on  a  liberal  allowance.  One  had  to  make  up 
in  time  and  thought  and  effort  what  one  saved  in 
money. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  263 

There  was  a  fascination  about  it,  for  a  while. 
When  one  was  young  and  strong,  and  the  scrimping 
and  working  were  only  an  interlude  between  a  joyous 
past  and  a  glorious  future,  one  could  make  a  game  of 
the  thing.  One  summer  of  hard  work  and  economy 
was  rather  a  lark,  but  she  often  wondered  about  the 
women  who  summered  and  wintered  so,  all  through 
their  lives. 

How  could  they  endure  it?  How  could  they  pos- 
sibly endure  it?  There  must  be  thousands  of  them, 
hundreds  of  thousands.  Most  of  the  women  on  the 
Ridge  were  living  that  way.  How  could  they  be 
satisfied  and  cheerful  as  most  of  them  seemed  to  be? 

She  did  not  want  to  be  idle  again — not  for  long  at  a 
time.  She  would  work  and  be  useful,  but  she  wanted 
to  choose  her  work  and  to  be  useful  in  an  interesting 
and  dramatic  way,  against  a  satisfactory  background. 

After  all,  money  was  frightfully  important.  Life 
was  grubby  without  it;  and  yet  those  cheerful,  happy, 
hard-working,  home-bound  women?  What  was  the 
secret  of  their  content? 

She  was  thinking  about  them  one  afternoon  as  she 
skimmed  milk  for  churning.  Milk  always  made  her 
think  about  them,  because  she  hated  it  and  yet  was 
everlastingly  fussing  with  it.  Never  in  her  wildest 
imaginings  had  she  glimpsed  the  upheaval  that  one 
cow  could  cause  in  the  routine  of  a  well  ordered 


264  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

household.  There  were  moments  when  it  seemed 
incredible,  impossible  that  she  had  ever  longed  to 
take  a  cow  into  the  family,  but  she  had.  She  had 
been  crazy  for  a  cow — had  prodded  Edward  into 
getting  Gladys — but  how  could  she  have  known  that 
that  mild-eyed,  ruminating  Jersey  would  be  reck- 
lessly prodigal  in  her  contribution  to  the  family 
support? 

Probably  the  creature  had  a  generous  impulsive 
nature  and  wanted  to  help  in  the  family's  financial 
crisis  but  she  was  overdoing  the  thing.  No  family 
could  use  as  much  milk  as  Gladys  gave  and  yet  one 
couldn't  with  a  clear  conscience  waste  any  of  it. 

When  the  cook  came  downstairs  in  the  morning,  a 
foaming  pail  of  milk  was  on  the  kitchen  table  to  greet 
her.  All  day  long  she  was  skimming  and  cooking 
custards  and  trying  recipes  that  called  for  sour  milk, 
and  cleaning  milk  pans  and  making  Dutch  cheese 
and  puttering  over  butter  and  feeding  clabber  to  the 
chickens — and,  in  the  evening  Teddy  came  in  with 
more  milk.  There  was  no  sense  in  a  cow's  giving 
milk  twice  a  day,  absolutely  no  sense  in  it. 

"And  if  it  isn't  milk  it's  something  else,"  she  said, 
viciously  slapping  a  ladelful  of  sour  cream  into  the 
churn.  "How  do  they  stand  it  for  ever  and  ever? 
How  can  they?" 

"Ready  for  me?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  265 

Jean  looked  up  at  the  handy  man,  standing  in  the 
doorway  between  pantry  and  kitchen.  He  was 
smiling  at  her  and,  as  she  met  the  smile,  a  curious 
thing  happened.  From  deep  down  in  the  soul  of  her 
welled  up  a  feeling  that  drove  doubt  and  question 
from  her  fumbling  thoughts — that  brought  swift,  sure 
understanding  of  the  secret  at  the  heart  of  content. 
It  passed  as  swiftly  as  it  came  but  it  left  a  flush  on  her 
face  and  a  glow  in  her  heart. 

"Almost  ready,"  she  answered,  bending  over  her 
work  and  trying  to  steady  her  voice.  What  had 
happened?  Nothing,  she  told  herself;  nothing  at  all. 
She  was  tired  and  her  nerves  were  on  edge  and  Teddy 
had  startled  her. 

She  called  him  Teddy  now.  Everybody  called  him 
Teddy.  He  wasn't  at  all  an  Edwardish  person. 

He  came  over  and  stood  beside  her,  as  she  closed 
the  lid  of  the  churn,  but  what  had  that  to  do  with  the 
queer  tightening  of  her  throat?  He  almost  always 
churned  for  her,  and  there  was  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  she  should  fumble  nervously  with  the  churn  top 
instead  of  clapping  it  down  briskly  and  uncon- 
cernedly. 

" Something  wrong?  " 

He  leaned  forward,  shoulder  touching  her  shoulder, 
face  close  to  her  face.  His  big,  capable  hands 
touched  hers,  as  he  took  the  churn  top  from  her,  and 


266  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

again  the  quivering  flash  of  illumination  ran  through 
her  nerves. 

She  drew  back  hastily,  gathered  up  some  empty 
milk  pans  and  carried  them  to  the  kitchen,  but,  as  she 
washed  them,  her  thrilling  pulses  mocked  at  her  de- 
fiant brain. 

From  the  pantry  came  the  sound  of  the  churn 
dasher  splashing  in  time  to  a  whistled  tune.  She 
could  not  see  the  man  who  was  handling  it,  but  she 
knew  exactly  how  he  looked  as  he  stood  working  the 
dasher  up  and  down,  with  a  checked  gingham  apron 
tied  around  him;  his  collar  off,  his  shirtsleeves  rolled 
up.  Not  a  heroic  figure. 

Splashing  and  whistling  were  syncopated  now, 
broken  in  upon  by  pauses  and  thumpings. 

In  a  little  while  he  would  call  her.  She  knew  what 
he  would  say.  Funny  how  well  she  knew  his  ways. 

Working  together  brought  people  close — closer  and 
closer — if  they  could  come  close  at  all.  Playing  to- 
gether wouldn't  do  it,  but  working  and  planning  and 

accomplishing  together Those  other  women! 

Her  thoughts  swung  back  to  them.  Perhaps  some 
one  had  helped  them  churn.  Perhaps  they  could 
stand  life's  everlasting  churning  because— 

"Butter's  come!"  Teddy  called  proudly.  He 
never  got  over  feeling  that  the  butter's  coming  was  a 
tribute  to  his  superior  masculine  method  of  splashing. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  267 

Churning  made  him  prodigiously  pleased  with  him- 
self— and  violently  hungry.  When  he  had  turned 
the  churn  over  to  Jean  he  always  sat  on  the  end  of  the 
pantry  table,  where  he  could  reach  the  cookie  jar, 
talking  lightly,  consuming  innumerable  spice  cookies, 
and  watching  the  butter-making  until  the  last  pat 
was  stamped  with  an  imposing  "B"  and  set  in  the 
refrigerator. 

On  this  day,  conversation  flagged.  Jean  was  irre- 
sponsive, absorbed  in  her  task,  but  still  he  lingered. 

The  pantry  was  a  pleasant  place — big,  cool,  white- 
shelved,  white-cupboarded,  immaculate.  He  liked 
being  there.  He  liked  spice  cookies  too.  That  was 
why  there  was  always  a  supply  of  them  in  the  jar  be- 
hind the  cupboard  door,  though  the  cook  would  have 
resented  the  suggestion  that  they  were  there  because 
he  liked  them. 

Most  of  all,  he  liked  watching  the  butter-maker. 
Small  wonder,  he  told  himself,  that  dairy  maids  had 
figured  largely  in  poetry  and  fiction.  There  was 
something  about  a  pretty  girl  making  butter  that 

— ;  well,  there  certainly  was  something. 

Jean's  blue  chambray  sleeves  were  pushed  up 
above  her  elbows.  Her  collar  was  rolled  widely 
away  from  her  throat.  The  elbows  and  the  throat 
were  excuse  enough  for  a  young  man's  lingering  in 
the  pantry,  even  without  the  spice  cookies;  and 


268  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

there  was  more,  much  more.  For  instance,  there 
was  the  chin  above  the  throat — a  rounded  chin  that 
was  browner  than  the  throat;  and,  just  where  the 
brown  melted  into  the  white,  there  was  a  place- 
Teddy  reached  hastily  for  another  cookie.  Occupa- 
tion is  an  aid  to  resisting  temptation;  but  even 
though  he  munched  vigorously,  it  seemed  wiser  to 
stop  looking  at  that  place  just  under  her  chin,  on  the 
right  hand  side. 

So  he  transferred  his  gaze  to  the  back  of  her  head, 
but  gained  no  repose  of  spirit  by  the  change.  Her 
hair  was  lovely,  thick  and  soft,  and  gathered  up  into 
a  most  engaging  knot;  but  he  could  stand  the  knot 
and  the  waving  locks  above  her  ears.  It  was  a  soft, 
moist  little  curl  at  the  nape  of  her  neck  that  was  too 
much  for  him. 

A  most  tantalizing,  bewitching,  provocative  little 
curl  and  near,  invitingly  near. 

He  leaned  swiftly  forward  and  kissed  it. 

A  butter  bowl  broke  into  pieces  on  the  pantry 
floor.  A  girl  whirled  quickly  round,  with  anger 
flaming  in  her  face.  The  sinner  braced  himself  for 
the  wrath  to  come. 

And  then,  to  her  own  amazement  as  to  his,  Jean 
laughed — laughed  helplessly,  half  hysterically,  with 
tears  of  rage  in  her  eyes  and  with  a  tempest  in  her 
heart. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  269 

"You  1-1-ook  s-so  id-didiotic  in  that  ap-p-pron!" 
she  gasped,  wiping  her  eyes. 

It  was  no  way  to  meet  an  insult.  She  realized 
that  perfectly.  It  reflected  neither  what  she  ought 
to  have  felt  nor  much  of  what  she  really  felt,  but  it 
cleared  the  air  of  sentiment,  as  no  anger  or  scorn 
could  have  cleared  it. 

What  girl  with  a  sense  of  humour  could  take 
seriously  the  digressions  of  a  large  young  man  in  a 
checked  gingham  apron?  What  large  young  man 
in  a  checked  gingham  apron  could  follow  up  a  kiss 
as  a  kiss  should  be  followed  up  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  game? 

"I'd  forgotten  it."  Teddy  took  off  the  apron, 
folded  it  carefully,  laid  it  on  the  shelf  where  it  be- 
longed. 

"Sure  I  don't  know  whether  it's  spoiled  my  life 
or  saved  it,"  he  said  with  a  rueful  grin;  but  inwardly 
he  cursed  that  apron  and  the  mill  that  wove  it  and 
the  machine  that  spun  it  and  the  cotton  plant  that 
bore  it. 

A  young  woman,  no  longer  amused  but  preter- 
naturally  calm,  turned  her  back  upon  him  and 
went  on  with  her  interrupted  butter-making. 

"You  might  pick  up  those  pieces  of  crockery  and 
throw  them  away,"  she  said  briskly. 

He  picked  them  up,    hesitated  a  moment,  and 


270  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

-went  toward  the  kitchen.  Jean  looked  back  at  him 
Across  her  shoulder. 

"And  please  remember,"  her  voice  was  as  quiet  as 
it  -was  cold,  "that  another  such  occurrence  would 
make  it  impossible  for  me  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Bonner." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  began.     "No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 


am." 


The  outside  door  slammed  behind  him. 

Jean  finished  her  butter,  put  it  away,  rolled  down 
her  sleeves,  took  a  wide-brimmed  straw  hat  from 
its  hook  behind  the  kitchen  door,  and  went  away 
down  the  path  to  the  pasture  lots.  She  wanted  to 
think,  and  she  could  always  think  better  in  the  open. 
She  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  the  rough  hill  pastures 
running  down  to  Green  River  were  lonely.  Per- 
haps she  wanted  to  feel  too,  and  the  hill  pastures 
were  lovesome  as  well  as  lonely. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GREEN  RIDGE  folk  always  spoke  of  the  fields  and 
woods  running  from  the  Bonner  farm  down  to  Green 
River  as  the  Back  Lots — a  prosaic  name  for  an  en- 
chanted place,  but  only  the  children  knew  that  the 
Back  Lots  were  enchanted. 

Just  at  first  the  land  sloped  gently.  Sumach  and 
juniper  rose  in  clumps,  above  a  sea  of  sweet  fern 
and  bayberry  and  low  huckleberry  bushes.  Small 
cedars,  erect  and  trim,  rebuked  the  straggling  untidy 
bushes.  Groups  of  white  birch  wavered  delicately 
against  the  sky  line.  Here  and  there  a  larger  tree, 
spared  by  the  wood  choppers,  flung  a  wide  spreading 
shade. 

There  were  well-worn,  narrow  trails  through  the 
thick  crowding  bush  growth — paths  made  by  lei- 
surely roaming  cattle,  and,  occasionally,  an  old 
wood  road  offered  a  broader  trail. 

Nearer  the  river,  the  ground  pitched  steeply 
downward  and  the  woods  began — second-growth 
woods  but  thick  and  shadowy  and  cool  and  full  of 
glamour,  with  dusky  paths  wandering  through  a 

271 


272  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

green,  sun-sifted  gloaming  and  coming  out  now  and 
then  into  open  glades,  flower-strewn  and  fern- 
fringed. 

Jean  had  never  been  able  to  decide  which  she  liked 
the  better,  fields  or  woods,  but  the  day  was  warm  and 
she  was  tired,  and  the  woods  meant  climbing  a  very 
steep  hill  on  her  homeward  way;  so  she  threw  herself 
down  among  the  sweet  fern,  where  a  sycamore  tree 
offered  shade  and  a  group  of  junipers  shut  her  away 
from  the  trail.  The  bruised  fern  beneath  her  poured 
out  fragrance,  aromatic,  delicious.  Little  warm, 
vagrant,  sweet-scented  breezes  drifted  over  her.  A 
drowzy  hum  and  buzz  of  insect  life  was  in  the  air, 
and  up  through  the  white-blotched  boughs  of  the 
old  sycamore  was  infinite  blueness,  cloud-flecked. 

The  girl  nestled  more  comfortably  into  her  sweet 
fern  nest  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  spell  of  the  place 
and  the  summer  day. 

She  had  come  away  from  the  house  to  think;  but 
serious  thinking  would  have  been  easier  in  her  own 
room.  The  out-of-doors  world  was  distracting  and 
things  that,  within  four  walls,  had  seemed  enor- 
mously important,  refused  to  loom  horrific  down  in 
the  Back  Lots. 

A  young  man  had  kissed  a  girl.  Well,  what  of  it? 
The  Back  Lots  made  nothing  of  it,  nothing  at  all. 

"A    most    natural    and    delightful    proceeding," 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  273 

crooned  the  summer  world,  and,  though  Jean  clutched 
at  her  standards  of  propriety,  her  dignity,  her  pride, 
they  all  wilted  in  her  grasp.  Yes;  the  Back  Lots 
were  enchanted. 

She  tried  to  fix  her  mind  upon  the  offence  and 
work  up  a  glow  of  indignation,  but  a  devil's  darning 
needle  alighted  on  a  fern  frond  that  swayed  just 
above  her  head  and  prevented  her  giving  her  atten- 
tion to  minor  matters.  Then  a  rabbit  hopped  out 
from  a  thicket  and,  before  it  had  disappeared  down 
the  trail,  a  meadow  lark  left  its  nest  for  the  tip-top 
twig  of  an  alder  bush  and  swung  there  for  a  moment 
or  two. 

When  the  bird  had  taken  flight,  Jean  came  back  to 
the  matter  of  being  kissed — by  a  young  man  in  a 
checked  apron.  She  smiled  drowsily.  He  really 
had  looked  ridiculous  in  that  apron;  no,  not  exactly 
ridiculous.  Funny,  but  not  ridiculous.  She  couldn't 
quite  imagine  him  looking  ridiculous. 

She  tried  to  realize  that  he  had  spoiled  things — 
spoiled  the  comradeship,  the  working  together  and 
planning  together,  the  taking  care  of  the  Bonners 
together — but  things  absolutely  refused  to  seem 
spoiled.  The  Back  Lots  would  not  have  it. 

Of  course  she  would  be  very  severe.  He  must 
be  made  to  feel  the  enormity  of  his  offence. 

"Enormity?     Offence? "  smiled  the  Back  Lots. 


274  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Certainly,"  the  girl  insisted.  "Enormity!  Of- 
fence ! " — but  she  tried  in  vain  to  feel  offended.  Such 
a  swift,  fugitive  kiss!  One  could  not  take  it  seri- 
ously; but  odd  little  shivering  thrills  went  through 
her,  at  the  memory  of  it.  She  had  never  felt  that 
way  before  when  she  had  been  kissed  by  a  man. 
Oh  yes,  she  had  been  kissed  before.  Not  that  she 
had  made  a  habit  of  it;  but  few  girls  reach  the  age 
of  twenty-two  without  having  been  kissed  by  a 
young  man  or  two  on  one  provocation  or  another. 
She  did  not  feel  ashamed  of  those  past  kisses.  There 
had  been  very  few  of  them,  and  they  had  not  meant 
anything;  but  this  last  kiss ;  perhaps  the  hot- 
ness  of  her  cheeks  and  the  tingling  of  her  blood  meant 
that  she  was  ashamed  of  it.  But  why  be  ashamed? 
He  had  not  even  touched  her,  save  for  that  soft 
touch  against  her  hair.  If  he  had  put  his  arms  around 
her  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips 

She  began  the  supposition  calmly  enough  but 

abandoned  it  in  panic.  If  he  had Every  pulse 

in  her  body  began  a  sudden  throbbing.  Her  throat 
tightened  chokingly.  If  he  had — if  he  had 

She  was  faint  with  the  thought  of  it,  dizzy,  drown- 
ing in  the  sweetness  of  the  thing  that  had  not  been; 
and,  lying  so  with  every  nerve  aquiver,  she  was 
honest  with  herself  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  day. 

Love  had  come  to  her  and  had  laughed  at  her 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  275 

denials.  Ever  since  that  far-off  dusk — when  she 
had  sat  by  the  kitchen  window  with  Molly  in  her* 
arms  and  the  .syringa  scents  drifting  past  her,  and 
Teddy  Burton  had  come  in  through  the  low,  open- 
door — Love  had  been  waiting,  close  beside  her, 
patient,  insistent,  not  to  be  driven  away  by  any 
mood  of  hers.  There  had  been  times  when  she  had 
known,  but  she  had  never  admitted  to  herself  that 
she  knew. 

Even  now,  she  was  up  in  arms  against  the  intruder. 
If  she  was  in  love  she  would  get  over  it;  and  it 
couldn't  be  the  biggest  kind  of  love,  the  kind  she  had 
dreamed  of,  the  kind  every  girl  dreams  of. 

In  love  that  way  with  Teddy  Burton?  Absurd, 
preposterous ! 

But  even  his  name  as  she  said  it  to  herself  made 
waves  of  feeling  run  up  to  the  brain  that  was  denying 
love,  and  play  havoc  there.  She  could  not  remember 
how  absurd  and  preposterous  the  idea  of  loving 
Teddy  was.  She  could  only  remember  the  light  in  his 
gray  eyes  whenever  she  came  upon  him  unawares; 
the  smile,  out  of  all  his  jolly  smiles,  that  was  espe- 
cially for  her;  the  strength  and  resourcefulness  that 
went  so  oddly  with  the  light-hearted,  slangy  boyish- 
ness of  him;  his  gentleness,  the  gentleness  he  had  for 
Molly  and  for  Mrs.  Bonner — for  all  women — and 
most  of  all  for  her.  He  was  dear — dear — dear.  And 


276  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

what  a  scurvy  trick  fate  had  played  her!  To  hold 
Love  out  to  her  and  ask  a  price  she  could  not  pay! 
Why  couldn't  she  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  of 
her  own  class,  a  man  she  could  marry?  Love  wasn't 
enough.  In  spite  of  all  the  poets  said,  it  wasn't 
enough.  She  would  have  been  willing  to  give  up 
wealth  and  luxury  for  it — but  marry  a  man  who  had 
evidently  had  an  education,  a  chance,  yet,  at  twenty- 
five  was  contented  to  do  farm  chores  at  thirty-five 
dollars  a  month?  A  sensible  girl  could  not  do  it,  could 
not  possibly  do  it,  and  yet 

She  had  had  such  hopes,  ambitions,  ideals.  She 
had  planned  such  a  wonderful  future  for  herself.  She 
had  set  out  on  her  adventure  so  confidently,  so  gaily, 
and  now 

She  sat  up  suddenly,  pushed  her  hair  back  out  of 
her  eyes,  dabbed  ineffectually  at  the  tears  that  were 
running  down  her  flushed  cheeks  and  hurled  the 
shameful  truth  into  the  lovely  mocking  face  of  the 
Back  Lots. 

"I'm  in  love  with  a  hired  man!" 

"Why,  God  bless  my  soul!"  gasped  a  pink  and 
portly  old  gentleman  who  rounded  the  juniper  bush  at 
that  moment  and  received  the  full  force  of  the  shock. 

He  rallied  valiantly. 

"That's  very  nice  for  the  hired  man,"  he  said, 
twinkling  down  at  her. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  277 

Something  curiously  familiar  about  the  twinkle  dis- 
tracted Jean's  attention  from  her  grievance  and  her 
embarrassment  and  before  she  could  swing  back  to 
them,  the  stranger  had  seated  himself  on  the  ground 
beside  her  and  was  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his 
face  and  his  bald  head. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  "  he  asked  in  a 
pleasant,  conversational  way.  He  was  not  excited 
by  the  topic,  but  he  was  politely  interested;  and, 
someway  or  other,  it  seemed  quite  natural  and  right 
for  him  to  sit  down  and  talk  it  over. 

Going  over  the  episode,  in  her  own  room  later,  Jean 
wondered  why  she  had  not  resented  his  familiarity, 
why  she  had  not  risen,  as  a  properly  trained  young 
woman  should  have  risen,  and  walked  haughtily 
away;  but  at  the  moment  the  idea  of  rising  and  walk- 
ing haughtily  away  simply  did  not  occur  to  her. 

He  was  evidently  such  a  nice,  amiable  old  gentle- 
man, and  he  took  things  so  amazingly  for  granted,  and 
there  was  something  about  him  that  made  her  feel  as 
if  she  had  known  him  and  trusted  him  for  a  long 
time,  and  it  was  a  topsy-turvy  upsetting  afternoon 
anyway. 

"I'm  going  to  get  over  it,"  she  answered  with  great 
firmness. 

The  old  gentleman  laughed,  but  not  offensively. 
When  she  came  to  look  at  him  more  closely  he  was  not 


278  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

so  terribly  old — elderly  rather  and  with  something 
pleasantly  youthful  about  him  in  spite  of  his  bald 
head  and  his  fatherly  ways. 

"But  why  get  over  it?    Isn't  it  enjoyable?" 

He  had  her  there.  Of  course  there  were  imperative 
reasons  for  getting  over  it,  but  she  couldn't  make  up 
her  mind  whether  it  was  enjoyable  or  not  and  stopped 
to  think  it  over. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  sat  looking  out  across 
the  sun-soaked  hill  slope,  with  queer  expressions  play- 
ing over  her  face.  Being  in  love  was  wonderful. 
Even  when  one  wasn't  happy  over  it  and  must  get  out 
of  love  at  once,  there  was  something  breathlessly 
glorious  about  it  and  if  one  could  only  give  oneself  up 
to  the  wonder  and  the  glory 

"You  see,"  the  old  gentleman  went  on,  in  a  cheer- 
ful, impersonal  way  that  seemed  to  take  all  the  em- 
barrassment out  of  the  discussion,  "there  are  very 
few  things  as  agonizingly  enjoyable  as  being  gen- 
uinely in  love. 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  lose  one's  chance  at  the  en- 
joyment— and  the  agony.  I  can  specially  recom- 
mend the  agony.  Why,  even  the  German  measles 
form  of  love  couldn't  very  well  be  spared.  I  re- 
member when  I  was  seventeen — she  was  twenty-four. 
It  was  terrific  while  it  lasted,  and  I  was  sure  it  would 
last  forever. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  279 

"Now  that's  what  impresses  me  about  your  ex- 
perience. It's  my  observation  that  one  is  always  sure 
he'll  die  of  German  measles.  You  are  so  morally 
certain  you'll  get  over  this  attack  of  yours  that  I'm 
wondering  whether  you  haven't  picked  up  the  real 
thing." 

"Real  or  German,  I'm  going  to  get  over  it." 

"But  why?" 

It  was  none  of  his  business  but  he  was  so  elderly, 
and  fatherly,  and  he  had  such  a  nice  voice  and  such 
kind  eyes,  and  such  a  reassuring  air  of  serenity. 
And,  besides,  he  already  knew  the  worst.  She  had 
shouted  it  at  him  as  he  came  round  the  juniper 
bush. 

"Do  you  think"  (Jean  looked  at  him  seriously  as 
she  put  the  question),  "do  you  think  that  an  able- 
bodied,  intelligent  young  man  of  twenty-five  who  has 
evidently  had  a  fair  education  and  been  out  in  the 
world,  would  take  a  hired  man's  position,  at  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  month,  in  the  bad:  country,  if  he  had 
any  backbone  or  ambition?" 

Her  listener's  serenity  showed  signs  of  disturbance 
as  she  spoke.  Keenness  replaced  kindliness  in  his 
eyes  and  he  leaned  forward  to  study  the  girl's  face 
more  closely. 

"That  depends,"  he  said  slowly,  "on  his  reasons 
for  accepting  the  position." 


280  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"But  what  could  have  influenced  him  except  the 
wages?"  She  could  not  deal  in  abstractions  any 
longer.  This  was  a  definite  "he."  "Mrs.  Bonner 
advertised  and  he  just  answered  the  advertisement." 

"I  see — and  you  are " 

"Mrs.  Bonner's  cook." 

There  was  a  hint  of  defiance  in  her  voice  and  the 
eyes  that  met  his  held  a  challenge,  but  he  gave  no 
sign  of  a  prejudice  against  cooks. 

"Of  course  you  had  known  him  before  he  came  to 
the  Bonners?" 

She  looked  surprised. 

"Oh,  no,  I  hadn't.  I'd  never  seen  him  until  we 
came  up  here  and  I  thought  I'd  loathe  him;  but  I 
couldn't." 

"  H'm ! "  The  old  gentleman  cleared  his  throat  and 
looked  regretful.  The  kindness  came  slowly  creeping 
back  into  his  eyes,  but  he  was  disturbed,  puzzled. 

Jean  smiled  at  him  gratefully.  It  was  nice  of  him 
to  take  such  an  interest. 

"Behaved  himself  since  he  came?"  The  voice 
was  gruff  but  there  was  an  anxious  note  in  it. 

"Beautifully." 

"  Hasn't  bothered  you — made  things  uncom- 
fortable for  you?" 

"Not  a  bit— ever;  until  to-day." 

"Eh?    What's  that?    What  did  he  say  to-day?" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  281 

It  was  splendid  of  him,  Jean  felt,  to  be  so  excited 
about  her  being  made  uncomfortable,  but  she  wished 
she  hadn't  said  anything  about  to-day. 

"It  wasn't  that  he  said  anything,"  she  explained. 

"He — well,  he "  Her  face  crimsoned  slowly, 

deeply,  under  the  watching  eyes.  "You  see  I  was 
churning  and  he  had  been  helping  and — but  it  wasn't 
really He  just " 

"Small  blame  to  him!"  asserted  the  old  gentleman 
stoutly.  "He'd  have  been  less  than  a  man — or  more 
than  one,  which  is  just  as  bad  for  practical  purposes — 
if  he  hadn't." 

He  was  a  most  surprising  person  with  his  sudden 
gusts  of  anxiety  and  fierceness,  and  his  sudden  toler- 
ance. 

"Your  young  hired  man  doesn't  sound  like  a  bad 
sort,"  he  went  on,  "but,  of  course,  as  you  say,  he's 
only  a  hired  man  and " 

"That  wasn't  what  I  said,"  Jean  interrupted.  "I 
said  a  man  like  him  wouldn't  be  a  hired  man  unless 
there  was  something  radically  wrong  with  him." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  mind  his  being  a  hired  man,  if 
there  wasn't  anything  radically  wrong  with  him?" 

She  hesitated,  threw  back  her  head  and  looked  him 
frankly  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes,  I'd  mind.  I'd  mind  a  lot— but  I'd  be 
ashamed  of  minding." 


282  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Of  course  he  hasn't  any  money." 

"  Oh,  that ! "     She  dismissed  that  objection  lightly. 

"  We  could  make  money."  There  was  honest  pride 
in  her  voice.  She  could  be  a  helpmate  now.  She  had 
proved  herself. 

"I'd  like  money,"  she  admitted.  "You  see,  I  al- 
ways had  such  a  lot  of  it  before  Uncle  John  lost  mine 
along  with  his." 

She  realized  suddenly  what  she  was  telling  him  and 
stopped  short  in  utter  dismay. 

"Nobody  knows — I  didn't  mean — it  would  be  so 
impossible,  you  see — I  couldn't  sponge  and  I  didn't 
know  how  to  do  anything  except  cook.  It  was  silly  to 
care — but  people  talk  so  and  it  seemed  easier,  only— 
oh,  please!" 

It  wasn't  lucid  but  he  got  her  idea  through  all  the 
stammered  confusion  and  it  seemed  to  appeal  to  him 
amazingly, 

"Don't  worry,  little  girl.  I'm  not  one  of  the  talk- 
ing people.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  gulped  down  a  little  sob.  He  was  the  father- 
liest  man!  The  sob  refused  to  stay  down  and  sud- 
denly she  found  herself  smothering  it  against  a  tweed 
shoulder,  while  a  gentle  hand  patted  her  back.  It 
was  a  most  shocking  exhibition  but  the  man  did  not 
seem  shocked. 

"There,   there,   daughter!"   he   said   consolinglyc 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  283 

"It's  all  right."  "The  daughter"  really  did  make 
things  seem  right.  Of  course,  if  he  took  it  that  way; 
and  he  did,  he  undoubtedly  did. 

"I'm  n-not — p-p-erfectly  horrid,"  she  insisted. 
"I  d-do  like  money — and  I  hate  g-g-g-rubby  things, 
and  I  don't  believe  I'd  be  happy  if  I  had  to  live  my 
whole  life  out  among  them,  but  there'd  be  something 
nice  about  helping  to  make  the  money." 

Her  voice  was  steady  now.  She  raised  a  scarlet, 
tear-stained  face  from  the  comfortable  shoulder  and 
moved  a  little  farther  away  from  the  fatherly  man, 
but  she  did  not  feel  ashamed,  only  tremendously  re- 
lieved. She  had  been  needing  a  good  cry  and  a 
shoulder  for  months  and  months  and  months. 

"Working  isn't  bad,"  she  explained.  "I  haven't 
minded  working.  I've  liked  it.  I  could  work  like 
fury,  with  some  one — for  some  one — but  I'd  want  to 
be  sure  the  man  had  the  thing  in  him  that  would 
make  him  win  out.  That's  it  you  know.  It's  not 
the  winning  that's  important.  It's  the  thing  that 
makes  it  possible  to  put  up  the  fight.  That's  what 
I  want  to  find  in  a  man.  If  it  were  there,  I  don't 
(believe  I'd  care  how  long  or  hard  our  fight  was. 
I  don't  believe  I'd  even  care  if  we  didn't  get  the 
material  things  we  worked  for.  I  could  stand  by  a 
man  who  fell  fighting,  but  a  man  who  wouldn't  make 
the  try,  who  wouldn't  do  his  part,  didn't  care— 


284  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

The  fatherly  man  beamed  encouragement.  Even 
self-absorbed  as  she  was,  she  noticed  that  he  looked 
as  though  relieved  about  something — looked  extraor- 
dinarily cheerful. 

"My  dear"  [he  wasn't  so  very  old  but  she  was  past 
wondering  at  being  called  "my  dear"  by  a  perfectly 
strange  man;  such  things  happened  in  the  Back 
Lots],  "My  dear,  fine,  little  girl,  I've  an  idea  that 
that  young  hired  man  you've  been  telling  me  about 
would  measure  up  all  riglit  if  you  knew  all  about  him. 
Give  him  the  benefit  of  the  daubt.  You  women  have 
to  give  any  man  the  bene£t  of  all  the  doubts  and 
then  forgive  him  a  lot  there's  no  doubt  about." 

There  was  a  crashing  of  bushes,  a  series  of  shrill 
halloos,  an  excited  squeal  or  two.  A  small  girl  and 
a  boy  carrying  berry  pails  broke  into  the  trail  from 
out  of  the  scrub  growth,  and,  looking  searchingly 
around,  spied  the  two  seated  figures  under  the  syca- 
more tree. 

The  squeals  were  repeated — Crescendo,  altissimo. 

"Jean,  Jean!"  shouted  Molly,  racing  down  the 
path  to  throw  herself  into  Jean's  arms. 

"Vere  was  a  big  sheep  an'  his  nose  was  all  black 
and  I  wanted  to  feel  would  the  black  rub  off  an'  he 
knocked  me  down,  ven  he  knocked  me  some  more — 
an'  I  never  knew  sheep  did — an'  Jimmy  he  made  ve 
sheep  run  after  him  an'  he  yelled  '  Get  over  ve  f ence* 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  285 

Molly,'  an'  I  did.  An'  I  don't  know  was  his  nose 
dirty  or  was  it  made  vat  way." 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  let  it  go  at  that!" 
urged  Jimmy. 

"She  got  over  into  the  lot  where  Pettingill's  big 
ram  is,"  he  explained.  "I  can't  handle  him  so  I 
just  had  to  get  him  mad  at  me  while  she  ran  and 
then  I  dodged  and  beat  it.  Where'd  you  find  Jean, 
Mr.  Brown?" 

"  Right  here.  We've  had  a  fine  visit.  I  was  taken 
berrying,"  he  explained  to  Jean,  "but  I  struck." 

She  was  looking  at  him  wonderingly.  So  this  was 
Mrs.  Morley's  boarder!  She  might  have  guessed  it. 
There  was  no  other  stranger  in  the  neighbourhood, 
but  he  wasn't  at  all  what  she  had  expected. 

"I'm  up  here  for  my  health,"  he  explained,  "and 
I  felt  sure  that  over-berrying  on  a  day  like  this  would 
be  ruinous  to  the  health,  and  by  the  way,  one  of  my 
worst  symptoms  is  loss  of  memory — total  loss  of 
memory.  It's  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  remem- 
ber anything  that  is  told  to  me  for  more  than  five 
minutes  after  I  hear  it." 

"How  frightfully  distressing!"  Jean  dimpled  at 
him  gratefully.  He  was  such  a  duck  of  an  old  gentle- 
man. Anybody  would  tell  him  a  fatal  secret  on 
sight,  and  would  feel  astonishingly  more  comfort- 
able for  having  told  him. 


286  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Yes,  isn't  it,"  he  assented,  showing  marked  ap- 
preciation of  the  dimpling.  "Still  life  has  its  com- 
pensations. On  the  whole,  I  should  say,  life  is  fairly 
kind  to  us.  It  holds  pleasant  surprises.  One  never 
knows  what  one  may  find  around  the  next  juniper 
bush." 

They  climbed  the  hill  together  and,  when  they 
came  to  the  parting  of  the  trails,  the  man  stood  and 
watched  the  girl  going  away  toward  a  white  house 
on  the  hilltop. 

"Lucky  young  rascal,"  he  said, smiling, but  he  was 
not  talking  about  the  girl. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TEDDY  BURTON  knew  that  the  episode  of  the  pantry 
should  have  been  followed  up  promptly,  undaunt- 
edly. By  all  the  rules  of  warfare,  heavy  artillery 
should  have  supported  the  infantry.  He  had  re- 
treated after  his  first  daring  skirmish;  but  that  was 
because  the  skirmish  had  been  as  much  of  a  surprise 
to  him  as  to  the  enemy — had  been  so  unpremeditated, 
so  totally  a  thing  of  impulse  that  it  had  left  him  be- 
wildered and  reft  of  strategy. 

When  his  bewilderment  wore  off  he  saw  clearly 
that  he  had  lost  an  advantage.  She  had  been  angry, 
but  the  time  to  face  anger  is  when  one's  fighting 
spirit  is  up — and  the  anger  is  also  up.  Watching 
anger  rise  is  the  blood-curdling,  nerve-paralyzing 
thing. 

He  should  have  told  her,  then  and  there,  that  he 
adored  her — that  he  intended  to  marry  her.  Shej 
couldn't  have  resented  that  much  more  than  she  had 
resented  the  kiss — nor  have  ridiculed  it  more  effec- 
tively— and  it  would  have  been  a  great  relief  to  him 
to  get  the  statement  on  record.  As  matters  stood, 

287 


288  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

he  had  offended  her,  put  her  on  guard,  and  had  little 
to  show  for  it — only  the  tingling  touch  of  soft  brown 
hair  against  his  lips  and  the  memory  of  a  warm, 
fleeting  nearness  that  made  his  blood  run  swiftly,  in 
retrospect. 

Slight  as  this  harvest  of  his  rashness  was,  he  spent 
a  good  deal  of  time  thinking  about  it;  but  at  last 
he  rose  from  the  nail  keg  on  which  he  had  dropped 
when  he  had  reached  sanctuary  in  the  barn,  and 
screwed  his  courage  to  the  sticking  point. 

He  would  go  to  her  and  tell  her  how  he  loved  her, 
make  her  listen.  Heaven  grant  that  she  was  still 
angry.  It  would  be  appalling  to  find  her  indifferent. 

He  did  not  find  her  at  all.  She  had  disappeared, 
gone  away  somewhere  so  that  she  wouldn't  have 
to  be  on  the  premises  with  him,  he  told  himself  de- 
jectedly. 

When  he  next  saw  her  she  was  cooking  supper  and 
Mrs.  Bonner  was  in  the  kitchen.  While  he  ate  his 
own  supper  she  went  back  and  forth  to  the  dining 
room.  She  was  not  disagreeable  to  him,  showed  no 
signs  of  anger,  was  merely  busy — unceasingly,  ab- 
sorbingly busy.  How  could  a  man  stop  a  girl  on 
her  way  to  the  dining  room  with  steaming  hot  dishes 
in  her  hands  and  tell  her  that  he  adored  her,  that 
he  was  going  to  marry  her? 

No;  he  had  bungled  the  thing  and,  anyway,  a 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  289 

kitchen  was  no  place  for  a  propitious  wooing.  There 
was  something  so  deadly  utilitarian  about  the  aspect 
of  the  place.  The  rows  of  shining  pots  and  pans 
frowned  down  romance.  He  would  need  moonlight 
or  dusk,  woodland  or  hilltop  magic,  all  the  adven- 
titious aid  he  could  get,  when  he  tried  to  make  this 
very  competent,  practical  young  person  believe  that 
she  was  going  to  marry  him. 

So  he  filled  the  water  pails  and  brought  the  wood 
and  flung  out  into  the  night. 

The  cook  suddenly  and  completely  lost  interest  in 
her  work  and  went  over  to  the  window  where,  dish- 
cloth in  hand,  she  watched  the  long,  sturdy  figure 
go  swinging  down  the  walk,  through  the  gate,  and  up 
the  road. 

She  flushed  a  little  and  frowned  a  little  and  smiled 
a  little,  then  frowned  again. 

"Coward!"  she  said  scornfully. 

Once  more  a  smile  came  on  the  heels  of  the  frown. 

"Poor  lamb,"  she  murmured. 

One  epithet  might  have  seemed  to  the  unprej- 
udiced as  bad  as  the  other;  but  the  tone — there  was 
a  vast  difference  in  the  tone. 

For  a  week  or  so  life  in  the  Bonner  family  moved 
along  much  as  it  had  moved  before  the  handy  man's 
fall  from  grace.  After  a  slight  interval  of  frost,  the 
cook  relaxed  into  guarded  amiability,  but  Teddy 


290  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

had  no  more  long  hours  alone  with  her  and  they 
treated  each  other  with  what  a  Correct  Letter  Writer 
would  call  "distinguished  consideration." 

So  polite  were  they  to  each  other  that  Molly, 
paying  an  afternoon  visit  and  insisting  that  both  her 
Jean  and  her  Teddy  should  be  on  the  entertainment 
committee,  watched  them  and  listened  to  them  for  a 
while  with  growing  disapproval  and  then  entered 
protest. 

"Now  let's  not  play  it's  a  party  any  more,"  she 
insisted.  "Let's  play  we're  just  us  and  we've  got 
firteen  children  and  ve  littlest  one's  got  ve  mumps, 
an'  I'm  it." 

Half  of  the  entertainment  committee  fell  back  on 
the  grass  and  whooped  for  joy.  The  other  half, 
though  dimply  about  the  mouth,  gravely  tied  a 
handkerchief  around  the  afflicted  infant's  jaw  and 
stuffed  grass  inside  it  to  produce  an  adequate  swell- 
ing. 

"We  aren't  going  to  play  party  any  more?" 

The  man  had  stopped  laughing  and  asked  the  ques- 
tion eagerly  but  cautiously. 

"Thirteen  children  and  mumps  would  break  up 
any  family's  company  manners,"  he  urged. 

Jean  laughed.  How  could  one  be  dignified  and 
play  with  Molly? 

She  took  the  child  home  later,  while  Teddy  went 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  291 

back  to  his  gardening,  and  Mrs.  Morley's  boarder 
left  his  hammock  in  the  shady  backyard  to  open 
the  gate  for  her. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the 
afternoon  in  the  Back  Lots.  She  had  found  him  on 
Cedar  Hill  one  evening  when  she  had  gone  there 
alone  to  watch  the  sunset;  and  they  had  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  together,  until  the  last  flecks  of 
amethyst  and  rose  were  gone  and  the  stars  had  come 
out,  talking  of  many  things,  but  not  of  hired  men. 
Evidently  Mr.  Brown  had  been  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  had  forgotten  all  that  she  had  said  to  him  beside 
the  juniper  bush. 

Yet  their  talk  kept  the  curiously  intimate  key  it 
had  struck  at  that  first  meeting.  It  seemed  impos- 
sible not  to  confide  in  Mrs.  Morley's  boarder.  He 
understood  so  perfectly  even  when  the  i's  were  not 
dotted  nor  the  t's  crossed. 

He  seemed  very  glad  to  see  her  when  he  opened 
Mrs.  Morley's  gate  for  Molly  and  her,  and  he  carried 
her  off  to  the  hammock,  where  Susan  joined  them  and 
where  Mrs.  Morley  came  later  bringing  the  inevitable 
fresh  cookies  and  a  pot  of  tea. 

"All  here  but  Jim,"  the  Boarder  said  contentedly. 
"  Where  is  Jim?" 

"Down  at  Sarah  Middleton's,  helping,"  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley's voice  had  a  note  of  apology  in  it. 


292  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Not  hard  work,  you  know — just  redding  up.  I 
never  let  him  go  anywheres  for  heavy  work;  but  you 
see  Sarah's  brother  George  came  unexpected,  the 
other  day — first  time  he's  been  here  in  six  years — and 
Sarah  didn't  want  to  be  doing  chores  all  the  time 
he  was  here,  so  she  asked  about  Jim.  'Twon't  hurt 
him,  and  he  can  have  the  money  for  himself." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  brother  George  doing  the 
chores?"  Mr.  Brown  asked  idly. 

Mrs.  Morley  laughed. 

"Well,  they  never  was  able  to  make  him  do  them 
when  he  lived  at  home — always  reading  dime  novels 
up  in  the  hay-mow.  I  reckon  Sarah  wouldn't  be 
likely  to  get  much  work  out  of  him  now.  They  say 
he's  done  real  well,  though — travelling  around  ped- 
dling something — needle  books  'tis  I  think." 

Jim  was  still  away  when  Jean  went  home  at  five 
o'clock;  but  as  she  opened  her  kitchen  door  a  small 
figure  came  to  meet  her. 

"  Why,  Jim ! ' '  she  cried  in  cheerful  welcome.  Then, 
after  a  look  at  his  face,  "Why,  Jim — dear!" 

"I've  been  waitin',"  he  said.  "I  had  to  see  you." 
He  was  flushed,  big-eyed,  choking  from  nervousness 
or  fright.  Jean  slipped  an  arm  around  his  shoulders. 

"Come  on  up  to  my  room,  Jim.  There's  no  hurry 
about  supper." 

Up  in  the  quiet  room,  with  the  door  closed  against 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  293 

the  world  and  the  friendly  arm  still  around  him,  the 
boy  stammered  out  his  story. 

"It's  George  Middleton.  He's  got  the  sheriff.  I 
heard  them  when  I  was  working  outside  the  window. 
He  suspected  right  away,  and  he  had  some  news- 
papers with  pictures  in,  and  all  about  the  bank  and 
everybody  thinks  they  look  like  him,  but  I'd  like  to 
know  how  they  could  tell.  I  bet  there  ain't  one  of 
them  ever  saw  him  with  his  glasses  off." 

"  Oh !"  A  gleam  of  understanding  shot  through  the 
bewilderment  in  the  listener's  face. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Jim.  Let's  begin  at  the  beginning. 
What  was  that  about  a  bank?" 

"  In  New  London.  The  cashier  stole  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  Got  away  as  slick  as  a  whistle  Mr.  Middle- 
ton  said.  Seemed  as  if  he'd  just  faded  off  the  map, 
and  some  of  the  detectives  was  sure  he  was  staying 
somewheres  close  by,  but  they  couldn't  get  any  trace. 

"So  then  Mr.  Middleton  came  up  here  and  folks 
told  him  about  Mr.  Brown  and  how  he  didn't  want  to 
meet  folks,  and  wore  goggles,  and  paid  such  a  lot  for 
board  so's  there  wouldn't  be  any  other  boarders. 
And  Mr.  Middleton  he  got  to  thinkin'  and  asked 
when  Mr.  Brown  came  here.  Miss  Middleton  said 
'twas  the  18th  of  July,  'cause  she  sold  her  cow  on  the 
17th  and  he  came  the  next  day. 

"And  Mr.  Middleton  said  that  was  funny  because 


294  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

the  bank  cashier  skipped  on  the  17th  of  July.  Then 
they  got  out  the  pictures.  He'd  kept  them  'cause  he 
thought  travelling  around  the  way  he  does  maybe 
he'd  spot  the  fellow  somewheres  and  there's  a  re- 
ward. 

"Everybody  says  the  pictures  look  like  Mr.  Brown. 
They're  dead  sure  it's  him.  There  was  Mr.  Pettin- 
gill  and  Mrs.  Pettingill  and  the  Rollins  down  there 
and  they  sent  for  the  sheriff  from  New  London. 
He's  comin'  to-night.  They're  all  comin'  up  with 
him.  Anyway,  the  men  are.  I  wisht  they'd  fall  in 
the  old  quarry  and  break  their  necks.  I  do  so.  The 
old  pie-faced  snoopers! 

"He  never  did  and  anyway  he's  better 'n  the 
whole  bunch.  I  don't  care  if  he  did.  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  him.  I  run  all  the  way  up  the  hill  and  then  I 
thought  I'd  tell  you  first  'cause  you  like  him  and 
you'd  know  what  to  do.  How'll  he  get  away? 
Would  Teddy  take  him  in  the  car?  Do  you  s'pose 
Teddy  would?" 

"I  don't  know — maybe,"  Jean's  face  was  serious. 
/'But  if  he  isn't  the  man  they  think  he  is,  he  won't 
(want  to  go,  Jim." 

Jim  nodded. 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  if  he  wants  to  go  we've  got  to  fix 
it.  Don't  you  guess  Teddy  would?" 

She  looked  doubtful. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  295 

"I'm  afraid — you  see  Teddy  doesn't  know  Mr. 
Brown,  Jim,  and  men  think  a  lot  of  their  old  silly 
laws,  except  when  they're  breaking  them  for  their 
own  benefit.  I  don't  believe  Teddy  would  want  to 
do  it." 

"Well,  you  would,  wouldn't  you?  You  said  you 
thought  he  was  fine,  and  he  likes  you  a  lot.  He  told 
me  so.  You'd  help,  wouldn't  you?" 

She  realized  that  she  ought  not  to  promise,  that 
she  was  pledging  herself  to  lawless  adventure;  but 
she  could  not  see  Mrs.  Morley's  boarder  robbing  a 
bank.  She  simply  could  not  see  it.  And,  ft  he  had 
robbed  the  bank — well,  she  felt  just  as  Jim  did  about 
it. 

"He's  a  dear  old  thing,"  she  said  defiantly,  "and  if 
he  wants  to  get  away,  he  shall.  I'll  take  the  car  and 
drive  him,  myself.  Now  run  along  home  and  tell 
him,  Jim,  and  then  let  me  know  what  he's  going  to 
do." 

Jim  wriggled  miserably. 

"It's  an  awful  thing  to  go  and  poke  right  at  him." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "but  it's  the  only  way  to  help 
him." 

"Yep:  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  want  to  do  it  in- 
stead of  me." 

"It's  your  job,  Jim,  and  you're  wasting  time." 

He  went  away  homeward,  dragging  his  bare  feet 


296  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

laggingly,  but  with  a  comforted  heart.  Jean  had 
promised  and  Jean  was  very  wonderful.  She  could 
do  'most  anything,  he  assured  himself.  Mr.  Brown 
was  as  good  as  saved. 

Still,  the  actual  saving  was  trying  business.  Supper 
was  ready  when  the  boy  reached  home  but  he  could 
not  eat.  There  was  a  large  lump  in  his  throat  and  an- 
other in  his  stomach,  and  he  felt  queer  and  all- 
overish. 

Mrs.  Morley  eyed  him  sharply. 

"Jim  Wells,  you  ain't  sickening  with  something, 
are  you?" 

"No'm." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  supper  lasted  for  hours. 
When  it  was  over,  he  went  to  his  evening  work  but  he 
scrambled  through  it  recklessly,  watching  the  side 
yard  as  he  worked.  Mr.  Brown  usually  walked  out 
there  after  supper. 

At  last  the  boarder  came  out  through  the  side  door, 
down  the  steps. 

Jim  hurried  to  him. 

"Let's  walk  down  to  the  orchard,  Mr.  Brown,"  he 
proposed.  *  'Tain't  wet.  P'r'aps  there's  deer  down 
there.  There  were  tracks  Sunday.  Come  on,  let's 
go  see." 

The  words  tumbled  out  breathlessly.  His  eyes  im- 
plored. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  297 

The  boarder  began  a  humorous  remark,  looked 
into  the  pleading,  unhappy  little  face  and  left  his  joke 
hanging  in  the  air. 

"All  right,  son.     Come  along,"  he  said  quietly. 

In  the  orchard  there  were  no  deer  but  there  was 
solitude.  Mr.  Brown  talked  lightly  about  clover  and 
tent  caterpillars  and  various  familiar,  commonplace 
things  while  his  companion  struggled  for  breath  and 
courage;  but  finally,  realizing  that  more  than  time 
was  needed,  he  put  a  friendly  hand  on  each  of  the 
boy's  shoulders  and  smiled  down  at  him. 

"Well,  Jim,  out  with  it.  Don't  worry.  I'll  see 
you  through." 

His  voice  was  kind.  His  eyes  were  even  more  kind. 
Jim  was  in  trouble  of  some  sort,  and  boys  in  trouble 
needed  fathering. 

"What's  happened,  my  boy,  what  have  you 
done?" 

Jim  made  a  desperate  effort. 

"I  ain't,"  he  said  wretchedly.     "It's  you." 

"Eh?    What's  that?" 

"It's  you,"  Jim  repeated,  "about  the  bank." 

"Bank?    What  bank?" 

"The  bank  in  New  London.  They  think  you're 
the  cashier  that  took  the  money.  George  Middle- 
ton's  got  a  newspaper  picture  of  him." 

"  God  bless  my  soul."     Mr.  Brown  was  startled  but 


298  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Jim  saw,  with  an  upward  swoop  of  spirits,  that  he  was 
not  alarmed — that  he  even  seemed  amused. 

"They  was  talking  about  it  down  at  Middleton's 
where  I've  been  workin'.  It's  on  account  of  your 
wearin'  goggles  and  acting  funny  about  people  seeing 
you,  and  coming  the  morning  after  the  bank  was 
robbed,  and  being  sort  of  fat  and  bald,  like  the  pic- 
ture." 

The  story  was  running  freely  now. 

"I  didn't  take  any  stock  in  it  all  but  I  thought 
maybe — well,  anyway,  I  thought  you'd  ought  to 
know  before  the  sheriff  comes." 

"What?"  The  word  exploded  noisily  on  the  still 
evening  air. 

"The  sheriff  from  New  London.  They  wrote  to 
him  and  he's  coming  to-night.  They  got  a  tele- 
gram." 

Mr.  Brown  turned  from  the  boy  and  stared  out 
through  the  orchard  boughs  at  the  afterglow  in  the 
western  sky.  His  lips  were  set  in  a  straight  line  and 
there  was  a  furrow  between  his  eyes.  Once  he 
smiled  sheepishly,  but  the  frown  quickly  followed  the 
smile.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  curt  and  crisp., 
a  business-like  voice. 

"When's  the  sheriff  coming?" 

"'Bout  eleven  or  half  past.  He's  going  to  motor 
up  from  Saybrook." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  299 

"Is  there  a  train  out  of  here  before  then?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Where  could  I  get  one?" 

"I  don't  know — Meriden  maybe,  or  Hartford." 

"  Hartford !  That's  it.  How  far  is  it  to  Hartford?  " 
4 'Bout  twenty-five  miles." 

"Whom  could  I  get  to  run  me  over  there  and  keep 
quiet  about  it?" 

Jim's  lips  were  trembling  again  and  his  faith  was 
ebbing,  but  his  loyalty  stood  firm. 

"  There  ain't  anybody — except  Jean." 

"Jean?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  told  her.  I  thought  maybe  Teddy'd 
help,  but  she  says  we'd  better  not  ask  him,  'cause 
men  are  sort  of  silly  about  their  old  laws  when  they 
ain't  breakin'  them  for  theirselves." 

Mr.  Brown  made  a  peculiar  noise  that  might  have 
been  a  laugh  and  might  have  been  a  sneeze.  "She's 
quite  right.  The  hired  man  mustn't  know  any- 
thing about  it — not  on  any  account.  We  don't 
want  him.  Isn't  there  anybody  else — anybody 
who'd  do  it  for  good  big  pay?" 

"Jean  said  she'd  take  the  car  and  drive  you  her- 
self." 

"Oh,  she  did!    Then  she  isn't  down  on  me?" 

"Well,  she  said  she  didn't  believe  you  did  it  and, 
if  you  did,  you  were  an  old  dear  anyway." 


300  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

'  *  Women !  Women ! ' '  murmured  the  fugitive  from 
justice.  "What  would  the  criminal  life  be  without 
them !  Jim,  Miss  Mackaye  is  a  brick." 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  Jim.  "Shall  I  go  down  and  tell 
her?" 

The  man  hesitated. 

"It  might  make  trouble  for  her." 

"We'd  be  back  by  half -past  ten." 

"And  she  isn't  afraid  to  drive?" 

"  Traid  nothin'!    Jean  ain't  the  'fraid  kind." 

"No,  I  guess  not.  I  guess  not.  She'd  always 
stand  by — if  she  cared  about  a  man.  See  here, 
Jim.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something.  It's  the 
gospel  truth  and  some  day  this  fall  I'll  prove  it  to 
you;  but  until  then  I  want  you  to  take  my  word  for 
it. 

"I'm  not  that  bank  cashier.  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  that  bank  robbery.  I'm  not  hiding  on 
account  of  anything  wrong  I've  done,  but  there's  a 
reason  why  it  would  be  very  embarrassing  and  in- 
convenient for  me  to  get  mixed  up  in  a  thing  of  this 
sort.  I  could  prove  that  I'm  not  the  man  the  sheriff 
wants  but  I'd  have  to  do  it  by  proving  who  I  really 
am  and  it  would  make  a  lot  of  talk — get  into  the 
papers  probably.  I'd  hate  that.  I  had  a  good 
reason  for  coming  up  here,  and  I've  had  a  fine  time, 
and  some  day  I'm  coming  back;  but,  just  now,  I'm 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  301 

going  to  cut  and  run.  Think  you  can  believe  in  me 
even  if  I  do  run  away?" 

"Betcherlife!" 

Jim's  face  was  shining.  Doubt  had  melted  away 
and  unhappiness  had  gone  with  it.  Only  a  glorious 
excitement  remained.  Never  in  his  wildest  dreams 
had  he  planned  a  better  adventure  than  this. 

" I'll  go  tell  Jean." 

,Mr.  Brown  nodded  assent. 

"Tell  her  just  what  I've  told  you,  Jim.  And  tell 
her  that  if  she  thinks  taking  me  to  Hartford  will 
make  trouble  for  her,  she  mustn't  do  it.  I'd  much 
rather  face  the  music;  but,  if  she  can  manage  it — 
and  is  willing — well,  I'll  be  very  greatly  in  her 
debt. 

"I  won't  take  my  trunk;  nothing  in  it  I  care  about. 
I'll  just  pack  my  bag,  leave  a  note  for  Mrs.  Morley, 
and  go  down  to  the  school-house  corner — where  it's 
so  dark  under  the  trees,  you  know.  Miss  Mackaye 
and  you  can  pick  me  up  there;  but  see  here,  my  boy, 
how  are  you  going  to  explain  your  being  away?  I 
don't  want  to  get  you  into  trouble,  either." 

"Nobody '11  care,  if  they  think  I'm  down  at  the 
Bonners'." 

"Sure?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"All  right.    Cut  along." 


302  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Do  you  believe  him,  Jim?"  Jean  asked,  when  the 
boy  had  given  her  his  message. 

The  homely,  sensitive  boy  face  turned  up  to  hers 
brimmed  with  confidence. 

"I  wouldn't  believe  he'd  robbed  that  bank  if  I'd 
seen  him  doin'  it." 

The  girl  tossed  her  doubts  aside  with  a  reckless 
gesture  of  both  hands. 

"All  right.  Here  goes;  Teddy's  up  at  the  min- 
ister's planning  about  the  men's  club.  That's  luck. 
I  told  Mrs.  Bonner  I  was  going  to  take  the  car  out. 
She's  forgotten  it  by  this  time  but  I  didn't  like  to 
take  it  without  telling  her. 

"Jimmy,  this  is  going  to  be  fun.  This  is  going  to 
be  great  fun — only  I  wish  I  had  a  racing  car.  A 
Ford's  not  the  thing  for  a  career  of  crime." 

She  was  gay,  given  over  to  the  adventure;  and 
when,  a  little  later,  she  ran  the  car  into  the  dense 
shade  at  the  school-house  corner,  her  spirits  were  on 
tiptoe  and  her  face  was  sparkling. 

Mr.  Brown  looked  at  her  appreciatively  as  he 
climbed  into  the  seat  beside  her. 

"Do  you  always  twinkle-twinkle  so,  when  you 
are  rescuing  bank  robbers  from  sheriffs?"  he 
asked. 

"Always." 

"If  I  were  a  younger  man  I  would  acquire  the 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  303 

bank  robbery  habit.  I  suppose  you  think  you  are 
rescuing  a  criminal?" 

"No  such  luck;  but  it  is  rather  larky,  isn't  it?" 

She  was  driving  the  car  skilfully,  daringly,  getting 
a  surprising  speed  out  of  it,  even  over  the  hilly  road. 

It  was  rather  larky.  Mr.  Brown  admitted  as 
much  to  himself.  He  was  stout  and  elderly;  but 
flying  through  the  twilight,  dashing  into  inky  woods, 
darting  out  upon  open  stretches  where  shreds  of 
daylight  lingered,  coasting  downhill,  scrambling  up- 
hill, with  a  face  like  Jean's  beside  him  and  danger 
spurring  him  on — really  the  criminal  life  had  its 
thrills. 

"We  are  taking  the  back  road,"  the  driver  ex- 
plained. "It's  rough  and  corkscrewy.  We  can't 
make  as  good  time,  but  we  won't  meet  any  one.  All 
right  back  there,  Jim?" 

"Fine!     Let 'er  rip!" 

The  voice  from  the  back  seat  was  full  of  thrill  such 
as  the  stout  and  elderly,  even  if  criminal,  cannot  know. 

Jim  was  having  the  time  of  his  life.  Every  noise 
was  the  sound  of  a  car  in  pursuit.  Every  shadow  in 
the  road  ahead  was  an  ambush.  Around  every  cor- 
ner, the  sheriff  was  coming  to  meet  them. 

He  prickled  with  gooseflesh.  There  was  a  squeam- 
ish uneasiness  about  his  middle;  but  he  was  glor- 
iously happy. 


304  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

After  eight  miles  of  back  country  road  they  ran 
into  the  turnpike  and  began  passing  other  cars,  but 
the  dusk  had  closed  in  and  there  was  no  chance  of 
recognition. 

Jean  drove  less  dashingly  now,  but  steadily  and 
fast. 

No  one  talked  much.  The  driver  was  busy  with 
her  task,  Mr.  Brown  with  his  thoughts,  Jimmy  with 
his  imagination;  but  when  the  street  lights  of  Hart- 
ford swung  into  marching  lines  Jean  turned  to  her. 
passenger  with  a  laugh  that  held  a  tremolo  admis- 
sion of  relaxed  tension. 

"How's  that?"  she  asked  with  pride. 

Mr.  Brown  laid  a  palm  gently  on  one  of  the  gloved 
hands  that  held  the  wheel. 

"Jean,"  he  said.  "You're  the  daughter  I've  al- 
ways wanted.  I  couldn't  say  more  than  that,  could 
I?  But  I  will  say  more  some  day,  when  I  explain 
all  this  foolishness.  Now,  I'm  going  to  say  good- 
bye. There's  a  car  line  over  there  at  the  next  corner. 
I'll  take  a  car  into  town  and  spend  the  night  with 
friends.  After  I'm  with  them  it  doesn't  matter  who 
sees  me  or  recognizes  me;  but  I'll  worry  until  I  know 
you  are  safe  at  home.  I  wouldn't  have  let  you  come 
if  I'd  known  what  the  roads  were. 

"When  you  get  home,  will  you  call  up  George 
Allan  in  Hartford  and  ask  him  to  send  your  order 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  305 

to-morrow?  He  will  understand  and  the  others  on 
the  party  wire  can't  make  anything  out  of  that. 
But  if  anything's  wrong,  if  there's  the  slightest  un- 
pleasantness for  you,  just  tell  Allan  so,  and  he  and 
I  will  run  down  to  your  rescue." 

Jean  nodded.  To  her  surprise  she  felt  choked  and 
miserable.  She  did  not  want  to  say  good-bye  to 
him.  But  she  stopped  the  car  and  he  climbed  out, 
set  his  bag  on  the  ground,  and  held  out  a  hand  to  Jim. 

"  Good-bye,  Jim.  I'll  be  back  in  the  fall ;  and  when 
I  come,  things  are  going  to  happen  to  you.  I  think 
you'll  like  them.  I  know  you  will.  You've  been 
a  mighty  good  comrade,  my  boy." 

"It'll  be  poison  lonesome."  Jim's  excitement  was 
temporarily  submerged  in  gloom. 

"Yes,  but  think  about  the  fall,  and  the  things  that 
are  going  to  happen — and  nobody  can  be  really 
lonesome  with  Jean  around." 

He  turned  to  the  girl  at  the  wheel  and  the  friend- 
liness that  had  been  in  his  eyes  for  Jim  glowed  more 
warmly. 

"Good-bye,  little  woman,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  as  tender  as  though  she  had  really  been  the 
daughter  he  had  always  wanted. 

"I  like  owing  you  a  debt.  Good-bye— till  fall. 
You  aren't  afraid  of  many  things,  child.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  your  own  heart." 


306  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

She  sat  watching  him  as  he  walked  away  and  swung 
himself  on  a  car. 

"He's  coming  back,"  Jim  sniffed  audibly,  but 
spoke  with  conviction. 

"Yes,  I  wonder  if  I'll  be  here."  She  did  not  sniff 
but  she  sounded  forlorn.  "Come  on  over  into  the 
front  seat,  Jim.  It's  lonesome.  Now  for  home." 

They  ran  the  car  into  the  barn  at  half -past  ten 
and  no  one  marked  their  coming.  Teddy  was  still 
working  over  club  plans.  The  Boimers  were  fast 
asleep.  The  coast  was  clear. 

Jim  chuckled  happily. 

"The  folks  said  they  was  goin'  to  bed  early  'cause 
they'd  been  puttin'  up  jam,  and  Mr.  Brown  was  in 
his  room.  They  was  goin'  to  leave  the  key  under  the 
mat  for  me.  There  won't  a  soul  know  when  I  get 


in." 


He  spoke  in  a  conspirator's  whisper,  with  furtive 
looks  into  the  shadowy  places. 

"It's  a  shame  you  can't  be  there  when  the  sheriff 
comes,  Jean,  but  I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning." 

He  told  her  in  the  morning.  So  did  Mrs.  Morley 
and  Susan  and  Molly,  Molly's  account  making  up  in 
dramatic  quality  what  it  lacked  in  clearness.  Every- 
body on  Green  Ridge  told  everybody  else. 

It  was  a  wonderful  day  for  the  Ridge. 

"Beats  all  how  he  got  away,"  Ezra  Pettingill 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  307 

told  a  group  at  the  post  office.  "  Rollins  and  Middle- 
ton  and  I  went  up  there  with  Sheriff  Day,  but  there 
wasn't  anything  doing.  He'd  left  his  trunk  full  of 
silk  pyjamas  and  such  things  and  a  note  for  Lucilla 
saying  he'd  been  called  away  suddenly  and  would  be 
back  for  his  things  in  the  fall.  Like  Hell  he  will! 
Left  board  money  up  to  the  end  of  the  week.  He 
could  afford  it.  Easy  come,  easy  go." 

"And  will  you  believe  it,"  the  postmistress  added. 
"Those  silly  women  won't  hear  to  a  word  about  his 
robbing  the  bank.  Lucilla  says  nothing  could  make 
her  believe  he's  a  bad  man  and  that  she  hopes  the 
late  peaches  won't  all  be  gone  when  he  comes,  be- 
cause he's  so  fond  of  cobbler.  Susan's  just  as  bad. 
It's  a  mercy  they  weren't  murdered  in  their  beds. 
The  sheriff  suspicioned  them  some  at  first,  but  he 
soon  saw  they  were  as  surprised  as  he  was.  Jim  said 
he  left  the  man  down  in  the  orchard  long  about  seven 
when  he  went  down  to  Miss  Mackaye's  and  the  folks 
heard  him  come  into  his  room.  That's  the  last  they 
know." 

For  a  week  or  so  excitement  raged;  then  the  de- 
tectives who  had  come  to  the  sheriff's  help  went 
away,  and  Ridge  life  lapsed  into  uneventfulness. 

But  one  person  knew  who  had  spirited  Mr.  Brown 
from  the  Ridge. 

The  morning  after  the  bank  robber's  flight  Teddy 


308  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Burton  came  into  the  Bonner  kitchen  with  a  puzzled 
frown  on  his  face. 

"  Somebody  had  the  car  out  last  night.  You  didn't 
hear  any  noise  about  the  barn,  did  you,  Jean?" 

The  cook  put  a  pan  of  rolls  into  the  oven  carefully 
before  she  answered. 

"I  had  the  car  out  myself,"  she  said  after  the  oven 
door  was  closed. 

"Oh!" 

She  went  about  her  work  humming. 

"Must  have  taken  a  long  drive!" 

She  coloured  hotly.  The  gasolene!  Stupid  not  to 
have  had  the  tank  partly  filled  somewhere;  but,  after 
all,  the  length  of  her  drives  was  no  affair  of  his. 

"Yes,  we  did— Jim  and  I." 

"I  see." 

He  did  see.  That  was  the  distressing  part  of  it. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  at  her  thoughtfully. 
Then  comprehension  dawned  in  his  eyes,  and  the  line 
of  his  lips  straightened. 

"You  mustn't  do  that  sort  of  thing,  Jean." 

ffis  tone  was  crisp,  authoritative,  and  the  slave  that 
is  in  every  woman,  however  deeply  buried  under 
militancy,  thrilled  to  the  masterfulness;  but,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  principle,  the  authority  was  swiftly  challenged. 

"Why  not?" 

She  might  have  asked,  "What  sort  of  thing?"  but 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  309 

scorned  the  evasion  and  met  him  flatly  on  the  main 
issue.  A  bomb-laden  suffragette,  defying  the  House 
of  Commons  would  have  seemed  humble,  pro- 
pitiatory beside  her;  but  Teddy  did  not  quail.  The 
pasha  that  is  in  every  man,  however  deeply  hidden 
under  indulgence,  was  outraged. 

"Because  I  won't  have  you  taking  such  chances." 

She  gasped  at  the  temerity  of  him. 

"You  might  have  got  into  all  kinds  of  a  mess,"  lie 
went  on.  "Suppose  something  had  gone  wrong  with 
the  car;  suppose  you'd  had  an  accident!  Suppose 
some  one  had  seen  you  and  recognized  you.  Suppose 
the  sheriff  had  run  foul  of  you  and  held  you  up !  Nice 
story  it  would  have  made  for  the  papers,  wouldn't  it? 
A  young  woman  motoring  a  bank  robber  all  over  Con- 
necticut in  the  night,  helping  him  to  make  a  get- 
away !  Scare  heads  and  pictures  and  nasty  scandal, 
and  the  Bonners  dragged  in!" 

"Teddy  Burton!" 

She  tried  to  make  it  scathing  but  it  was  only  sur- 
prised. He  was  so  amazingly  big  and  mannish  when 
he  was  angry  and  he  wouldn't  be  so  angry  if  he  didn't 
care.  She  liked  it.  She  rather  hoped  he  would  beat 
her  before  he  got  through. 

"I  thought  you  had  more  sense,  Jean."  It  was  a 
new  experience  to  have  a  young  man  disapproving  of 
her  in  that  uncompromising  fashion  and  telling  her  so. 


310  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"If  somebody  had  to  interfere  with  the  la  wand  keep 
a  thug  out  of  jail,  why  didn't  you  ask  me  to  do  it?" 

Suddenly  his  face  flushed  more  deeply  and  a  wave 
of  suspicion  swept  over  it. 

"How  old  is  that  man,  anyway?"  There  was  a 
sharp  edge  on  his  voice. 

Jean  drew  a  long  breath  and  pulled  herself  to- 
gether. She  was  on  familiar  ground  when  jealousy 
showed  its  head.  It  was  only  being  well  scolded 
— and  liking  it,  liking  it  enormously — that  was  new 
and  upsetting. 

"Oh,  not  old." 

"I  thought  he  was  an  old  gentleman." 

"Well,  of  course  he's  not  a  boy" — her  voice  ex- 
pressed immeasurable  distaste  for  boys — "but  not 
old.  One  could  never  think  of  him  as  old.  He's  so 
fine — and  splendid.  And  he  didn't  rob  the  bank, 
you  know.  He  couldn't.  Nothing  would  make  me 
believe  anything  against  him.  I'm  glad  I  did  it.  I'd 
do  it  again  for  him  to-night." 

She  meant  it;  but  she  knew  that  she  was  giving  a 
false  impression  and  impish  enjoyment  danced  in  her 
downcast  eyes,  though  her  face  was  all  demureness. 

He  did  not  beat  her. 

He  did  something  far  more  disconcerting.  He 
gathered  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her  full  on  the 
lips. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  311 

All  that  she  had  dreamed  down  among  the  sweet 
fern  and  bayberry  of  the  Back  Lots  came  true  and 
more,  much  more  that  she  could  never  have  dreamed. 

Protest,  resistance — they  could  have  made  no  head- 
way against  the  flood  of  strange,  sweet  feeling 
that  was  sweeping  through  her,  drowning  anger  and 
doubts  and  fears,  carrying  away  old  landmarks, 
sending  her  familiar  everyday  world  whirling  round 
and  round  and  crashing  off  into  oblivion,  creating  a 
new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  for  her. 

No;  she  could  never  have  dreamed  it.  It  was  be- 
yond the  reach  of  a  girl's  dreams. 

He  freed  her  lips,  but  still  held  her  close, 'looking 
down  exultantly  into  her  wonder-filled  face. 

' '  My  girl ! ' '  There  were  heart  throbs  in  the  homely 
words.  "My  girl!" 

Even  passion  could  not  give  him  eloquence.  He 
was  no  poet,  just  an  ordinary  young  modern,  but 
fathoms  deep  in  love  and  so,  for  the  moment,  at  one  in 
heart  with  poets  back  to  the  earliest  rhymester  of 
them  all. 

And  the  girl  in  his  arms  was  not  in  critical  mood. 
For  her  his  "my  girl,"  was  poetry,  rhythmic,  rapt, 
inspired. 

"Tell  me,"  the  man  commanded. 

If  he  had  begged,  she  might  have  refused.  It  is  the 
masterful  lover  that  has  his  way. 


312  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Tell  me." 

Every  line  of  her  face  told  him.  Every  quick, 
sobbing  breath  told  him.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  it, 
her  cheeks  were  aglow  with  it,  her  lips  were  quivering 
with  it;  but  he  was  not  content. 

" Tell  me,  Jean.     Do  you  love  me?" 

She  nodded  shyly,  all  the  calm  assurance  gone  out 
of  her. 

"Say  it." 

She  said  it  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

As  he  lifted  his  head,  he  saw  the  rows  of  shining 
pots  and  pans  glaring  at  him  from  the  wall  and 
laughed  at  them  triumphantly.  Why  had  he  ever 
thought  that  a  kitchen  was  not  the  place  for  love- 
making?  Why  had  he  ever  thought  that  the  every- 
day world  of  work  and  its  commonplaces  were  outside 
the  gates  of  paradise! 

"You  darling,  you  blessed  little  darling!"  he  mur- 
mured to  the  back  of  a  brown  head  whose  face  was 
hidden  now  against  his  shoulder. 

"How  I'll  love  you,  and  work  for  you,  and " 

"Bully  me,"  said  a  small,  choked  voice.  "Don't 
forget  to  bully  me.  It's  so — terribly — good  for 


me." 


"Why,  my  dears,  my  dears!" 

The  voice  came  from  the  pantry  doorway  where 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  313 

Mrs.  Bonner  stood  looking  in  a  bewildered  way  at  her 
cook  and  her  handy  man. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  smiling,  but  the  smile  was  a 
wavering  white-lipped  one;  and  Jean,  who,  blushing 
rosily,  had  fled  from  Teddy's  arms  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  kitchen,  forgot  her  embarrassment  in  swift 
alarm. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  running  forward.  "  What 
is  it,  dear?" 

Mrs.  Bonner  clung  to  her,  trembling. 

"Rufus!  There's  something  wrong.  He  can't 
breathe.  He  doesn't  know  me.  I'm  frightened, 
Jean." 

The  doctor  came  an  hour  later;  but  long  before 
that  Teddy  had  carried  the  sick  man  to  his  room,  put 
him  to  bed,  given  him  a  heart  stimulant,  done  all  that 
could  be  done,  skillfully,  wisely. 

Mrs.  Bonner,  still  clinging  fast  to  Jean,  watched 
him  with  grateful  eyes.  ~ 

"I  thought  he  was  just  a  boy,"  she  said,  "just  a 
nice,  jolly,  capable  boy;  but  he's  a  man,  isn't  he?  I 
never  realized  he  could  be  like  this,  so  strong  and 
gentle  and  quiet,  did  you,  Jean?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  She  could  not  trust  her 
voice.  Loving  did  such  queer  things  to  one's  voice. 

"Pleuro  pneumonia,"  the  doctor  said,  when  he  had 
made  his  examination,  "and  very  low  vitality.  Too 


314  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

much  work  and  too  little  red  blood.  It's  going  to  be 
a  fight.  We'd  better  have  a  nurse  at  once." 

The  sick  man's  cook  shot  a  startled  glance  at  his 
handy  man.  A  nurse !  Twenty-five  dollars  a  week ! 

"Yes,  we'll  need  a  nurse.  Will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  telephone  for  one,  Doctor?" 

Teddy  recognized  the  financial  problem  involved, 
but  spoke  as  though  twenty-five  dollars  grew  on  every 
bush.  He  would  borrow  the  money  from  Coles. 
Borrowing  to  get  out  of  work  and  borrowing  in  an 
emergency  like  this  were  two  very  different  things. 

"How  can  we,  Teddy?"  Jean  whispered  to  him  in 
the  hall  later,  as  they  turned  from  seeing  the  doctor 
off. 

"There's  always  a  way  of  getting  what  one  ab- 
solutely has  to  have,"  he  answered  sturdily.  "I  can 
get  the  money.  When  will  you  marry  me,  Jean?" 

The  sequence  of  thought  was  obvious,  but  the 
proposal  was  extraordinarily  off  hand.  She  would 
probably  have  resented  its  calm  assurance  if  the 
real  things  of  life  had  not  been  crowding  in  upon  her. 
With  the  glory  of  love  and  the  shadow  of  death  in 
the  house,  coquetry  and  quibbing  seemed  poor  sense- 
less things. 

Still — marrying ! 

"We  can't  leave  the  Bonners  now,"  she  protested 
hastily.  "He  may  be  ill  a  long  time;  and,  if  any- 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  315 

thing  should  happen,  she'd  be Oh,  we  mustn't 

think  about  it.  Teddy — not  yet." 

He  smiled  into  her  startled  eyes. 

"No,  of  course,  not  just  yet,  not  until  things  are 
straightened  out  and  we  can  turn  the  blessed  infants 
over  to  other  foster  parents;  but  just  as  soon  as  things 
are  right  for  them?  September,  October.  Surely 
by  October." 

"We  can't,  Teddy.  We  can't  possibly.  He's 

dreadfully  ill,  and  this  is  August  and  I Oh,  no; 

not  October." 

There  was  panic  in  her  voice.  She  had  travelled 
far  and  fast  that  day  and  the  country  to  whose 
border  she  had  come  seemed  wide  and  strange  and 
full  of  mystery. 

"Are  you  afraid,  dear?" 

She  met  the  challenge  honestly. 

"A  little." 

"Of  me?" 

"Of  Life." 

"With  me?" 

She  nodded  slowly. 

"Yes— but  I'd  be  more  afraid  of  life  without 
you — now." 

So  he  had  his  way  again.  They  would  be  married 
just  as  soon  as  the  Bonners  could  spare  them.  In 
the  meanwhile,  they  would  stand  by. 


316  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Miss  Potter,  the  nurse,  came  with  the  twilight,  a 
brusque,  starchy  autocrat,  who  turned  every  one 
out  of  the  sick  room  and  took  the  campaign  into 
her  own  hands. 

"I  can't  like  her,  but  she  makes  me  feel  much 
safer — much,"  Mrs.  Bonner  told  Jean,  when  they 
found  themselves  on  the  outside  of  the  sick-room 
door. 

"Of  course,  if  it's  better  for  Rufus  not  to  have  me 

there — but  it  does  seem  as  if  I Oh,  Jean,  begin 

early,  begin  as  early  as  you  can.  A  lifetime  isn't 
long  enough  for  being  together.  Rufus  and  I  began 
so  late  and  we  were  always  so  busy.  Everybody 
needs  work,  but  the  years  go  by  very  fast.  Don't 
be  too  desperately  busy,  Jean.  Take  plenty  of  time 
for  realizing  that  you  are  happy.  There's  too  much 
taking  for  granted  and  there  are  days  and  days  that 
might  count  but  don't.  Then  some  day  one  or  the 
other  is  alone  and  grudges  those  days.  I'm  grudging 
them  now,  and  if  Rufus "  Her  voice  broke. 

"But  he  won't.  He  won't,"  Jean  declared  stoutly. 
"Teddy  says  he  won't." 

She  knew  it  was  foolish  when  she  said  it;  but  it 
had  comforted  her  and  Mrs.  Bonner  seemed  to  find 
it  comforting,  too.  Teddy  was  such  a  reliable  per- 
son. 

But  the  shaken  little  woman  came  back  to  the 


HOW  COULD  you,  JEAN?  317 

regret  again  when,  hours  after,  Jean  had  tucked  her 
into  bed  and  was  saying  good-night. 

"I'm  glad  about  Teddy  and  you,  child,  very  glad 
—though  I  don't  know  what  we  will  do  without  you. 
You  mustn't  think  about  us  though.  Don't  keep 
him  waiting.  Rufus  and  I  waited  a  year — so  that 
I  could  go  back  to  the  Faroes.  I  can't  see  why  I 
thought  the  Faroes  were  important.  A  whole  year! 
Good-night,  dear." 

Jean  lay  awake  long  that  night. 

She  was  happy,  very  happy — and  very  miserable. 
Friends  out  of  the  old  life  came  trooping  to  her,  and 
made  her  look  at  marriage  with  Teddy  through  their 
eyes.  Old  dreams,  old  plans,  old  ideals  clutched  at 
her.  Old  prejudices  asserted  themselves. 

She  thought  of  the  women  who  drudged  their  way 
through  life,  tired  women  with  the  youth  and  joy 
and  hope  crushed  out  of  them  by  weariness  and 
monotony.  She  shuddered  at  the  ugliness  of  poverty 
and  counted  over  the  beautiful  things  that  money 
could  buy.  And  she  cried  a  little,  there  in  the  dark- 
ness, because  she  must  choose  between  the  things 
she  loved  and  the  man  she  loved,  instead  of  having 
both. 

But  when  the  harvest  moon  came  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  and  looked  in  through  her  win- 
dow, she  could  not  remember  about  the  friends  and 


318  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

the  money  and  the  things  money  could  buy.  The 
moon  has  no  patience  with  heart  searchings  of  that 
kind,  none  whatever. 

A  flood  of  silver  light  came  drifting  through  the 
windows  and  across  the  floor.  It  found  the  bed  and 
crept  up  over  the  counterpane  to  a  face  that  smiled 
mistily. 

Lying  there  in  the  moonlight,  Jean  could  remem- 
ber nothing  but  the  strength  of  a  man's  arms,  the 
touch  of  his  lips,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  love-light 
in  his  eyes.  All  of  the  questions  and  warnings  and 
threats  that  had  come  stealing  up  out  of  the  darkness 
went  back  to  the  darkness,  were  clean  forgot  in  a 
world  where  there  was  only  love  and  more  love  and 
love  past  all  telling,  with  service  for  the  handmaid  of 
love. 

October  w.as  not  too  soon.  Jean  admitted  it  to 
herself,  happily,  drowsily.  Mrs.  Bonner  had  been 
right.  A  lifetime  of  being  together  was  not  enough. 

Just  on  the  edge  of  the  borderland  of  sleep,  mem- 
ory caught  at  her. 

What  was  it  she  had  written  to  Babs,  long  ago, 
before  Teddy  had  come? 

"All  my  pains  are  growing  pains.  Some  day,  God 
willing,  I'm  going  to  be  a  woman  /" 

"Well,  now" — the  thought  was  mixed  with  moon- 
shine and  dreams  and  remembered  kisses  but  she 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  319 

held  fast  to  it— "well,  now,  thank  God,  I  am  a 


woman." 


The  doctor  had  been  right  when  he  foretold  a 
fight,  and,  for  a  while,  the  fight  seemed  to  be  a  losing 
one. 

Mr.  Bonner  drifted  swiftly,  steadily  on  the  ebb 
tide  and  a  queer  hush  held  the  house.  Mrs.  Bonner 
sat  in  her  own  room,  white  and  still  and  very  gentle. 
Jean  was  with  her  whenever  work  allowed.  They 
did  not  talk  much,  only  sat  there  together  and  waited 
for  the  doctor  to  come,  waited  for  the  doctor  to  go, 
waited  for  him  to  come  again.  It  was  Teddy  who 
relieved  the  nurse  when  she  needed  rest.  She  had 
arranged  that. 

"He  is  steady  and  quiet  and  dependable,"  she  had 
said  in  her  curt  way.  "I  will  feel  safe  with  him  in 
charge." 

Even  Mrs.  Bonner  did  not  resent  the  choice. 
Every  one  leaned  on  Teddy. 

The  doctor  was  less  and  less  encouraging  as  the 
days  went  by,  and  Teddy  shook  his  head  gravely 
when  Jean's  eyes  questioned  him,  but  the  nurse's  face 
only  set  in  more  stubborn  lines  and  her  few  words 
snapped  more  and  more  like  whip  lashes. 

There  came  a  night  when  that  hush  in  the  house 
deepened,  when  the  doctor  came  and  stayed,  when 


320  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Teddy  sat  with  Mrs.  Bonner  and  Jean  in  the  little 
study  and  all  three  listened  breathlessly  for  sounds 
beyond  the  door  behind  which  Science  was  fighting 
Death  to  the  last  ditch. 

Outside  the  window  the  darkness  grew  less  dark. 
A  little  breeze  stirred  shadowy  tumult  in  the  trees. 
Off  somewhere  in  the  graying  gloom  a  whippoorwill 
gave  strident  warning  of  the  dawn. 

There  was  a  sound  of  steps  in  the  sick  room  and 
Jean's  hand  tightened  round  Mrs.  Bonner's. 

The  door  opened  and  the  doctor  came  out.  Just 
for  a  second  Mrs.  Bonner  closed  her  eyes.  She  was 
afraid  to  see  his  face;  but  when  she  opened  them,  he 
was  smiling  at  her. 

"Mr.  Bonner  is  sleeping,"  he  said.  "He  will  do 
very  well  now — with  care." 

Mr.  Bonner  did  do  very  well — with  care;  but 
September  was  half  gone  before  he  was  like  himself 
once  more.  Even  then,  he  did  not  go  back  to  work 
but  lay  contentedly  in  the  hammock  or  wandered 
about  the  farm  with  Mrs.  Bonner  always  beside  him, 
a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  curious  look  of  youth  in  her 
face. 

"When  are  you  and  Teddy  going  to  be  married?" 
she  asked  Jean,  on  the  day  when  the  doctor  made  his 
last  call.  "You've  both  been  so  good.  I  don't 
know  what  we  would  have  done  without  you.  Ruf  us 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  321 

and  I  both  realize  and  we  dread  your  leaving,  but 
we  don't  want  to  be  selfish.  We  wouldn't  have  you 
miss  a  day  together  because  of  us — not  a  day.  I've 
been  thinking  that  Susan  would  come  to  us.  She's 
well  now  and  kind  and  capable,  and  Molly  would  keep 
us  young.  There's  no  one  like  you,  Jean,  but  you 
must  take  your  happiness  quickly.  Don't  think  of 


us." 


"The  dear  soul  hasn't  the  faintest  idea  that  they 
haven't  money  enough  to  get  along  without  us," 
Jean  told  Teddy,  half  laughing,  half  crying.  "She 
doesn't  remember  how  much  she  gave  you  to  put 
in  the  bank.  I  don't  suppose  she  even  knew  how 
much  it  was  when  she  gave  it  to  you.  I  don't  see 
how  we  can  ever  leave  them." 

There  was  a  hint  of  impatience  in  Teddy's  laugh. 
"If  only  those  dividends  would  come  rolling  in 
again!  They  don't  need  us  for  anything  except 
financial  props.  Don't  flatter  yourself  they  do. 
They  don't  need  anybody.  They're  so  blamed  glad 
to  be  alive  and  together  that  the  rest  of  the  world 
simply  doesn't  count.  Jean,  I  wonder  if,  when  I'm 
old  and  bald  and  stooped  in  the  shoulders  and  a  bit 
groggy  in  the  legs- 
She  did  not  allow  him  to  finish.  There  was  e 
long  and  foolish  interval. 

"And  I  don't  see  how  you  can  even  smile  at  them," 


322  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Jean  reproached,  considerably  later.  "I  think  they 
are  adorable — perfectly  adorable." 

The  postman  came  late  that  day.  The  Bonners 
had  finished  their  luncheon  when  Teddy  brought  in 
the  mail,  but  were  still  at  the  table,  and  Mr.  Bonner 
balanced  a  spoon  carefully  on  the  edge  of  his  glass 
while  his  wife  ran  through  the  letters.  He  had 
fallen  out  of  the  way  of  bothering  with  his  own  mail, 
bothered  very  little  about  anything,  since  his  jour- 
ney to  the  edge  of  Beyond. 

"Why,  Rufus,"  Mrs.  Bonner  exclaimed  suddenly. 
"Why,  Rufus!" 

"Yes,  my  dear."     He  was  vaguely  polite. 

"This  is  very  interesting.     It's  from  Mr.  Pryor." 

Jean,  carrying  dishes  from  the  table,  stopped  by 
the  sideboard  and  busied  herself  there,  listening 
shamelessly.  History  seemed  to  be  repeating  itself. 
Perhaps  those  dividends 

"It's  about  a  mine,  Rufus,  a  lead  mine — only 
there  isn't  any  lead  in  it." 

"Yes."  Mr.  Bonner  nodded  understanding.  It 
was  his  experience  that  there  was  never  lead  in  lead 
mines,  nor  silver  in  silver  mines,  nor  gold  in  gold 
mines. 

"Still,"  he  remarked  cheerfully,  "mines  are  inter- 
esting. I've  always  considered  them  extremely  in- 
teresting." 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  323 

"This  one  has  oil  in  it,"  Mrs.  Bonner  explained. 

Over  by  the  sideboard,  Jean  held  her  breath  but 
Mr.  Bonner  was  not  impressed. 

"Curious,"  he  commented,  "but  that's  why  mines 
are  interesting,  I  suppose.  They  are  so  uncertain. 
One  never  knows;  but  oil — in  a  lead  mine — I  should 
think  that  is  quite  unusual." 

"It  seems  an  oil  mine  is  very  valuable — only  Mr. 
Pryor  calls  it  a  well.  He  says  we  are  most  fortunate, 
that  we  will  be  rich;  in  fact,  that  we  are  rich  already. 
That's  pleasant,  isn't  it?" 

She  might  have  been  discussing  an  invitation  to 
afternoon  tea. 

A  cup  fell  and  smashed,  the  door  of  the  pantry 
swung  open  and  shut,  the  kitchen  door  slammed,  and 
an  excited  young  woman  confronted  a  serene  young 
man  who  was  splitting  kindling  in  the  woodshed. 

"They've  struck  oil,"  she  announced  dramatically. 

Teddy  put  down  the  axe  and  eyed  her  with  con- 
cern. 

"Oil?"  he  echoed. 

"Yes,  in  a  lead  mine." 

"Jean,  my  child,  you're  raving." 

"It's  true.  They  have.  One  of  those  silly  mines 
of  Mr.  Bonner's.  They're  rich.  Mr.  Pryor  says  so." 

For  one  brief  moment  he  stood  staring  at  her,  al- 
lowing the  news  to  sink  in. 


324  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Then  he  caught  her  to  him. 

"When,  Jean?  When?  To-morrow?  Monday? 
Monday  at  the  latest!" 

But  this  time  he  did  not  have  his  way.  They 
waited  two  weeks.  A  woman  must  assert  herself 
occasionally. 

There  was  much  to  be  done  in  the  two  weeks. 
Susan  had  to  be  trained  to  the  ways  of  the  household. 
The  town  apartment  was  made  ready.  The  farm- 
house was  put  in  order  for  the  winter,  though  not  en- 
tirely dismantled. 

"It  must  look  pretty  for  the  wedding,"  Mrs.  Bon- 
ner  insisted.  "  Yes,  I  know  it's  to  be  a  quiet  wedding 
but  it's  to  be  a  pretty  one.  My  heart's  set  on  that." 

She  was  in  her  element  now,  buying  from  cata- 
logues, running  down  to  New  York  in  search  of  more 
to  buy,  brushing  aside  Jean's  protests,  spending  with 
both  hands. 

"There's  something  very  stimulating  about  an  oil 
well,"  she  explained  happily,  "It  gushes,  you  know. 
Mr.  Pryor  says  ours  is  a  gusher.  I  feel  that  I 
have  to  gush,  too;  but  no  matter  how  fast  I  gush  I 
can't  seem  to  keep  up  with  it.  Mr.  Pryor  and  Teddy 
are  investing  most  of  the  money  where  we  can  only 
get  the  interest.  That  seems  a  dull  way  to  use  a 
gusher,  doesn't  it?  But  I  dare  say  it's  wise,  and  at 
least  I  can  have  a  beautiful  time  getting  you  readyt 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  325 

Don't  spoil  my  fun,  Jean.  Please  don't  spoil  my 
fun." 

So  after  all  there  was  a  trousseau  but  things 
seemed  astonishingly  unimportant  to  Jean  in  those 
last  days.  She  did  not  even  know  what  kind  of  a 
home  she  was  to  have.  Teddy  had  said  it  would  be  in 
Buffalo  and  that  they  would  see  about  it  after  they 
reached  there.  His  salary  would  be  enough  to  make 
them  comfortable.  That  was  all  he  had  told  her  and 
she  was  not  curious.  She  had  made  her  choice  and 
was  contented — oddly,  restfully  contented. 

Just  what  their  circumstances  would  be  Teddy  him- 
self did  not  know;  but  he  could  support  his  wife.  Of 
that  he  was  sure.  He  had  written  to  his  father  telling 
him  the  bald  facts.  He  was  going  to  be  married. 
The  girl  was  poor,  had  been  working  as  a  servant. 
She  was  too  good  for  him,  worlds  too  good  for  him, 
and  the  truest  gentlewoman  he  had  ever  known.  He 
hoped  his  father  would  come  to  the  wedding. 

"You'll  love  her,  Dad."  It  was  the  world-old 
formula  of  fatuous  lovers  for  disapproving  parents. 
"You  can't  help  it.  Everybody  loves  her.  Is  the 
job  in  the  factory  still  open  to  me?  I  hope  so;  but,  if 
it  isn't,  I've  a  chance  with  the  Marbury  people — 
through  Carter.  Don't  think  I'm  going  to  lie  back 
on  you,  Dad.  I've  grown  up  since  I  fell  in  love  with 
Jean." 


326  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

Mr.  Burton,  Senior,  answered  by  wire. 

"Congratulations.  Will  be  there.  Job  waiting  for 
you." 

Not  effusive  but  satisfactory,  Teddy  told  himself. 
His  father  was  coming,  would  meet  Jean.  The  rest 
was  sure  to  be  clear  sailing. 

Jean,  too,  had  written  a  letter — a  letter  that  was  a 
feminized  version  of  Teddy's.  She,  too,  stated  the 
facts  but  she  did  not  leave  them  bald.  She  adorned 
them  with  luxuriant  tresses  and  marcelled  the 
tresses. 

How  could  a  girl  write  bald  facts  about  the  only 
man  in  the  world  to  her  dearest  friend,  particularly 
when  the  dearest  friend  would  be  sure  to  think  some 
of  the  facts  damning  to  the  man? 

Of  course  Teddy  was  the  only  man  in  the  world, 
whatever  friends  might  think  or  say;  but  it  would  be  a 
great  comfort  to  have  Barbara  Herrick  thoroughly 
understand  his  superlative  excellence,  so  she  tried  to 
give  her  some  slight  idea  of  it  and,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  twentieth  page,  abandoned  the  undertaking. 

"There's  no  use  writing,  Babs,"  she  admitted. 
"You'll  have  to  know  him  to  understand.  Maybe 
you  won't  understand  even  then.  I  don't.  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  I  could  give  up  all  the  'half 
gods.'  They  seemed  so  terribly  important  when  I 
was  putting  flowers  on  their  altars;  but  now—  well, 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  327 

it's  quite  true  that  'when  the  gods  arrive  the  half  gods 
go.' 

"I'd  like  some  of  the  old  luxuries,  I  wish  we  were 
going  to  have  money  and  social  position,  and  I  know, 
as  well  as  you  do,  that  most  of  the  women  who  have 
gone  in  for  the  'all  for  love'and  the  world  well  lost' 
stakes  have  come  dreadful  croppers;  but,  all  the 
same,  I  haven't  any  misgivings.  I  buried  them  all 
under  a  juniper  bush. 

"I'm  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world,  Babs,  and  it's 
fast  colour.  Just  come  and  see.  Do  please  come, 
dear.  You  and  Tom  are  all  of  the  old  life  I  really 
must  take  with  me  into  the  new;  and  you'll  both  fee! 
much  better  after  you  meet  Teddy — and  the  Bon- 
ners.  The  Bonners  diffuse  an  atmosphere  that 
would  make  the  maddest  of  doings  appear  alto- 
gether normal — and  they've  been  heavenly  good  to 
me. 

"But,  Babs,  I  haven't  told  Teddy  about  my  crim- 
inal past.  He  thinks  I  was  born  to  the  kitchen — bless 
him! 

"I  don't  believe  he'd  throw  me  over  if  he  knew  the 
worst;  but  it  might  make  him  unhappy  and  doubtful 
about  his  ability  to  make  me  happy;  so  I'm  going  to 
wait  until  it's  too  late  for  him  to  be  noble  and  over- 
modest.  I'm  counting  on  you  and  Tom,  remember. 
There's  no  one  else.  Don't  fail  me — JEAN." 


328  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"She's  inad,  stark  staring  mad,"  little  Mrs.  Her- 
rick  sobbed  when  she  had  read  the  letter  and  told  the 
news  to  her  husband. 

"A  hired  man  and  our  Jean!  How  could  she? 
She  mustn't.  She  shan't." 

Tom  Herrick  grinned  cheerfully  across  the  break- 
fast table. 

"She's  as  sane  a  girl  as  I  ever  knew,"  he  said  en- 
couragingly; "and  she's  a  dead  game  sport.  No  use 
arguing  with  her,  Honey.  Let's  just  see  her  through 
with  a  whoop  and  not  spoil  the  mad  tea  party." 

Mrs.  Herrick' s  whoop,  sent  by  post,  was  tremulous 
but  bravely  optimistic,  and  the  prospective  bride 
cried  a  little  over  it — happily. 

"Such  dears,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Such  loyal 
dears !  So  absolutely  sure  I'm  making  a  mistake  but 
standing  by,  just  the  same." 

The  wedding  day  came  after  a  night  of  rain — a 
glorious,  fresh- washed,  breeze-swept  day,  with  a  tang 
of  frost  in  the  air,  a  dash  of  red  in  the  maples,  a  glint 
of  gold  in  the  birches,  and  a  wonderful  blue  on  the  dis- 
tant hills. 

Through  the  shouting  joy  of  it  the  Herricks 
motored  up  from  New  York;  and,  long  before  their 
car  stopped  in  front  of  the  white  house  under  the 
maples,  at  noon,  they  were  converted  to  rashness,  in 
tune  with  romance,  ready  to  believe  in  miracles. 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  32D 

"After  all,  if  they're  frightfully  in  love  with  each 
other,"  Barbara  murmured  indulgently. 

Her  husband  stopped  the  car  on  a  hilltop  and  the 
two  foolish  married  folk  kissed  each  other,  while  a 
group  of  cows  looked  over  a  stone  wall  with  mild 
approval. 

Then  the  car  coasted  down  the  hill,  climbed  an- 
other hill,  and  Babs  was  in  Jean's  arms  while  two  men 
took  each  other's  measure  and  waited  for  the  first, 
fine  frenzy  to  subside. 

"He  seems  like  the  real  thing,"  Tom  confided  to  his 
wife,  later,  "but  what  in  thunder  is  a  chap  like  that 
doing  here?" 

"He's  marrying  Jean,  and  he's  a  blessed  angel," 
Mrs.  Herrick  stated  with  profound  conviction  and 
rapturous  relief. 

"But,  Babs " 

"She's  crazy  about  him." 

"Yes,  Iknow;but- 

"I'm  crazy  about  him  myself."' 

She  fled  brideward  and  her  husband,  shaking  his 
head  doubtfully,  strolled  out  into  the  yard. 

There  Teddy  joined  him  and  once  more  the  two 
studied  each  other,  under  cover  of  desultory  talk. 

"You've  known  Jean  a  long  time?"  Teddy  said  at 
last. 

"Yes;  a  long  time." 


330          HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN' 

"She  thinks  a  lot  of  you." 
"We  think  a  lot  of  her," 

Teddy  squared  his  shoulders  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"There's  something  I  think  I'd  better  tell  you,"  he 
began  shamefacedly.  Tom  Herrick's  genial  face 
hardened.  There  was  something  wrong,  after  all. 

"Suppose  we  walk  out  through  the  garden." 
Teddy  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  toward  the  house 
windows  as  he  spoke. 

"You  see  I  ought  to  have  told  Jean,"  he  went  on, 
"but  I  hated  to  spoil  things.  It  was  all  so  perfect 
and  I  didn't  know  what  foolish  idea  she  might  take 
into  her  head,  if  she  knew,  and  I — well,  I  put  it  off." 

Guilt  sat  heavily  upon  him  and  the  listener's  heart 
sank.  Poor  Jean!  But  it  was  better  to  know  now. 
Maybe  things  weren't  so  hopelessly  rotten.  Perhaps 
there  was  nothing  worse  than  a  divorce  or — 

"Better  get  it  out  of  your  system,"  he  advised 
curtly. 

A  moment  later  Jean  and  Barbara,  dressing  in  the 
bride's  room,  were  interrupted  in  serious  talk  by  a 
howl  of  mirth. 

"That's  Tom,"  Tom's  wife  said  positively.  "No- 
body e/se  in  the  world  ever  laughs  like  a  Calliope.  I 
wonder  what's  so  funny;  but  really,  Jean,  I  think  you 
ought  to  do  it.  Tom  thinks  so,  too.  Of  course  if  it 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  331 

were  something  bad  you  might  keep  it  to  your- 
self." 

"Well,  of  all  the  immoral  sentiments,"  protested 
the  bride. 

"But  this  sort  of  thing  can't  make  any  real  differ- 
ence," Babs  continued  severely,  "and  it  does  look  as 
if  you  hadn't  much  confidence  in  him.  I'd  tell  him 
beforehand,  Jean.  Truly  I  would.  Tom  says  it 
isn't  playing  the  game  not  to — that  a  man  would  hate 
not  being  told." 

The  girl  before  the  mirror  studied  her  own  re- 
flection anxiously. 

"He'll  hate  it — but  he  likes  me  in  white.  Perhaps 
you're  right.  I'll  go  and  tell  him  now.  Pat  me  on 
the  back,  Babs.  I  feel  as  though  I  were  going  to  con- 
fess that  I'd  been  married  three  times  and  had  two 
husbands  living." 

"  Jean ! "  It  was  Tom  Herrick's  voice  from  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  and  it  sounded  oddly  choked  and  very 
solemn. 

"Come  down  a  minute.  Burton  wants  to  see  you. 
It's  important.  He's  in  the  library." 

She  went  slowly  down  the  stairs,  slim  and  sweet 
and  girlish  in  her  simple  white  frock,  but  hesitating, 
all  her  blithe  self-confidence  gone,  a  mute  appeal  in 
her  eyes. 

The  slimness  and  sweetness  tugged  at  Teddy's 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

heart  but  he  missed  the  appeal.  He  had  troubles  of 
his  own.  Any  ordinary  girl  would  be  glad  to  hear 
that  her  lover  had  a  rich  father,  but  Jean  was  different 
— so  frank,  so  honest.  She  hated  deceit.  Per- 
haps  

"Herrick  said  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  began 
bravely.  "  I  would  have  told  you  before  only  I  wasn't 
sure  how  you'd  take  it.  You  see  I  was  mad  about  you 
the  moment  I  saw  you.  I'd  have  done  anything  to 
get  you  and  it  didn't  seem — I  meant  to  tell  you  but- 
well,  you  won't  let  it  make  any  difference  will  you, 
dear?" 

The  girl's  face  was  as  white  as  her  frock  now,  and 
fright  had  replaced  the  appeal  in  her  eyes. 

She  had  not  dreamed  of  this;  had  tossed  all  her 
early  suspicions  away;  and  now 

"Tell  me,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  quiet,  but  she 
put  a  hand  upon  a  high-backed  chair  to  steady  herself. 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  saw  you  on  the  street.  It  was 
all  over  but  the  shouting  right  then,  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned."  The  man  was  stumbling  through  his 
confession  desperately.  "But  there  wasn't  any  way. 
I  had  to  meet  you — and  I  saw  the  advertisement.  It 
was  a  way,  you  know — and  I  took  a  chance — and  then 
I  was  worse  hit  than  ever;  and  I  liked  the  work,  too. 
and  took  on  the  Bonners — and  you  were 
Oh,  Jean!  Jean,  darling!" 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  333 

He  came  toward  her,  arms  outstretched,  but  the 
look  on  her  face  stopped  him. 

"What  was  it  ?  "  she  asked.     "  What  had  you  done?  " 

"Done?"  He  stared  at  her  in  bewilderment. 
Hadn't  he  just  explained?  "Done?  Why,  chucked 
the  fishing  trip,  you  know,  and  signed  on  as  hired 
man,  and  kept  it  dark  that  Dad  had  money  to  burn 
and  I'd  been  burning  it;  but  I  didn't  take  a  cent  from 
him  after  I  met  you.  Word  of  honour!  I  went  on  my 
own  like  a  shot.  Going  to  stay  on  my  own;  but  of 

course  if  Dad Oh,  I  say,  don't  take  it  that  way, 

Jean!  Don't!" 

She  had  dropped  into  the  high-backed  chair  and 
was  crying — or  was  she  laughing?  Doing  both;  that 
was  it — and  he  couldn't  stand  it. 

"Darling,"  he  pleaded,  on  his  knees  beside  her,  his 
arms  close  round  her.  "Darling!  Don't!  I'll  never 
deceive  you  again.  It  was  only  that  I  couldn't  see 
any  other  way  and  it  seemed  harmless  enough  and 
you  had  me  shot  all  to  pieces  and  then  it  was  all  so 
blamed  sweet  the  way  it  was.  I'd  been  plumb  fed  up 
with  loafing  and  I've  loved  working — with  you.  I'll 
work  like  a  wop  for  you,  Jean,  and  I've  been  a  decent 
sort  aside  from  being  a  silly  idle  young  ass.  Truly  I 
have." 

The  girl  was  still  sobbing  a  little,  laughing  a  little, 
but  clinging  to  him  in  a  way  that  was  vastly  reassuring. 


334  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

"Tell  me  you  forgive  me,"  he  begged. 

"We — we're  partners  in  crime." 

The  voice  was  very  small  and  shaky  and  muffled  by 
his  coat  lapel.  "I've  a  horrible  past  of  my  own,  Ted. 
You  see  I — not  money.  It  was  all  lost — but  I  did — 
and  I  butterflied  around — and  then  I  cut  loose  to 
prove  I  could  earn  my  own  living;  but  I  wanted  to  go 
back.  I've  got  a  grubby  little  soul.  And  then  you 
came — and  I  wouldn't  at  first;  but  afterward  I 
didn't  care.  I  was  satisfied.  I  knew  nothing  else 
mattered." 

"My  darling!     My  blessed,  plucky  darling!" 

His  voice  was  shaky  now;  but  his  face  was  radiant 
and  in  the  face  Jean  at  last  lifted  to  his  there  was 
utter  content. 

A  succession  of  blood-curdling  shrieks  broke  in 
upon  their  good  moment  and  sent  them  hurrying  out 
of  doors  with  the  rest  of  the  household. 

A  big  motor  car  was  standing  before  the  gate.  A 
liveried  chauffeur  sat  like  a  graven  image  at  the  wheel 
and  Molly,  squealing  with  excitement,  was  swarming 
over  some  one  on  the  back  seat. 

"  Jimmy ! "  she  called.  "Jimmy,  come  see !  Come 
quick!" 

A  man  climbed  out  of  the  car  with  the  small  girl 
in  his  arms  and  came  up  the  walk. 

"Dad!"  Teddy  shouted,  running  to  meet  him; 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  335 

but,  at  his  heels,  Jean  and  Jimmy  and  Mrs.  Morley  and 
Susan  were  calling  out  glad  greetings  to  Mr.  Brown. 

He  was  a  wonderful  wedding  guest,  was  Mr. 
Brown,  after  he  had  gripped  his  boy's  hand  and 
looked  into  his  eyes  and  knew  that  all  was  well  be- 
tween them. 

" Don't  be  angry,  Ted,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  in- 
tend to  interfere  and  I  didn't  suspect  anything  shady, 
but  you  had  me  guessing.  I  wanted  to  know  what 
was  up  and  be  ready  to  haul  you  out  if  you  were 
wading  in  over  your  depth.  Then  when  I  found  you 
were  in  head  over  ears  already,  and  when  I  met 
Jean—  Ted,  if  you  aren't  good  to  that  girl,  I'll 
— well,  never  mind,  but  you  needn't  grin  like  a 
demented  chimpanzee.  She's  worth  ten  of  you. 

"I  had  the  house  done  over  when  I  went  home. 
You  won't  mind  coming  in  there,  will  you,  Jean? 
It's  so  confounded  big  and  lonely  and  it  needs  a 
mistress." 

"I'll  love  it."  Jean's  voice  was  humble.  She 
was  being  invited  to  fill  a  place  long  vacant  and  she 
realized  all  it  meant. 

"But  we'll  buy  a  farm  for  summers.  You  said 
you  wanted  a  farm,  Jean.  There's  an  old  one  five 
miles  out — on  a  hilltop.  You  specified  a  hilltop. 
Lilacs,  too,  but  elms  instead  of  maples.  I  believe 
you'll  like  it." 


336  HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN? 

He  patted  her  hand  gently  and  looked  around  hhn 
with  satisfied  eyes. 

"Then  you'll  all  come  to  visit  us.  I'd  like  a  farm 
here  on  Green  Ridge  if  it  weren't  so  far  from  the 
factory.  Great  place.  I  came  for  a  week  and 
stayed  until  the  sheriff  chased  me  out. 

"By  the  way,  I  went  over  to  New  London  yester- 
day and  saw  that  sheriff.  Nice  fellow. 

"You  see  it  was  this  touchy  boy  of  mine  I  didn't 
want  to  meet — afraid  he'd  think  I  wasn't  playing 
fair,  but  I  stirred  up  a  hullabaloo,  didn't  I?" 

"My  stars,  wait  till  I  get  a  chance  at  the  Ladies' 
Aid  Society!"  There  was  triumph  in  Mrs.  Morley's 
voice. 

"Invite  the  Ladies'  Aid  down,"  Mr.  Brown  urged 
genially.  "Invite  all  the  neighbours  down,  es- 
pecially the  Middleton  man.  I'd  like  to  apologize 
to  him  for  his  disappointment  about  that  reward. 
I'm  going  to  spend  a  week  with  you,  Mrs  Morley, 
and  turn  the  car  over  to  these  youngsters.  You  can 
murder  the  chauffeur  or  send  him  back  to  town  if 
he's  a  crowd,  Ted.  You  won't  need  him.  Jean 
can  drive.  I'll  swear  to  that.  How's  the  pie  supply, 
Mrs.  Morley?" 

Mrs.  Morley  was  fidgeting  restlessly  on  the  edge 
of  her  chair.  The  light  of  battle  was  in  her  eyes. 

"Well,  just  as  soon  as  this  wedding's  over " 


HOW  COULD  YOU,  JEAN?  337 

"Don't  hurry  them.     I  can  wait  for  my  pie." 

"Jim,  remember  those  things  that  were  going  to 
happen  to  you?  They're  going  to  begin.  New 
York  next  week  with  me,  then  school  and  college, 
and  after  that  you'll  have  to  come  out  and  help 
Ted  run  the  factory.  It'll  be  a  two-man  job  to 
keep  Jean  and  me  in  funds." 

Molly  was  on  his  knee.  Jim  stood  shy  but  ecstatic 
in  the  circle  of  his  arm.  He  reached  out  his  free 
hand  and  drew  Jean  to  him. 

"That  boy  of  mine  has  his  living  to  earn,"  he  said, 
smiling  proudly  up  at  her,  "but  you  and  I,  daughter 
—we're  going  to  play  around  a  bit." 

Then  the  minister  came  and  the  Bonners'  young 
folk  were  married. 

They  went  away  in  the  car  from  which  the  chauf- 
feur had  been  eliminated;  but  Jean  was  not  driving. 
She  was  throwing  kisses  back  to  the  group  at  the 
door  of  the  white  house  under  the  maples. 

"  The  lambs ! "  she  said  chokingly.     "  The  lambs ! " 

"You  aren't  crying?" 

Her  husband  could  drive  an  eight-cylinder  car  with 
one  hand  and  he  proved  it. 

"I  am,"  the  bride  sobbed.  "I'm  wailing!  Why 
shouldn't  I  cry,  Teddy  Burton?  This  is  the  funeral 
of  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  She  was  a  cook  lady ! " 

THE  END 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE   STRATTON-PORTER 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosstt  A  Dunlap't  Itet 

MICHAEL  Q'HALLORAN.     Illustrated  by  Frances  Rogers. 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy ,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.     He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.     He  also  as- 
sumes the  responsibility  of  leading  the  entire  rural  community  up- 
ward and  onward, 
LADDIE.      Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The 
story  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family.  Chief  among  them  is  that 
of  Laddie  and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has  come  to  live  in 
the  neighborhood  and  about  whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"  The  Harvester, "  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  if  the 
book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man  it  would 
be  notable.     But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  '*  Medicine  Woods," 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES.      Illustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp  ;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality  ;  and  his 
love-story  with  "  The  Angel  "  are  full  of  real  sentiment, 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.  Illustrated. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods ;  a  buoyant,  loveable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.  Illustrations  in  colors. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana, 
The   story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.     The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.      Profusely  illustrated. 

A  love  ideal  of  the  Cardinal  bird  and  his  mate,  told  with  delicacy 
and  humor. . 

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KATHLEEN  NORRIS*   STORIES 

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MOTHER.    Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  book  has  a  fairy-story  touch,  counterbalanced  by 
the  sturdy  reality  of  struggle,  sacrifice,  and  resulting  peace 
and  power  of  a  mother's  experiences. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD. 

Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Out  on  the  Pacific  coast  a  normal  girl,  obscure  and  lovely, 
makes  a  quest  for  happiness.  She  passes  through  three 
stages — poverty,  wealth  and  service — and  works  out  a 
creditable  salvation. 

THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE. 

Illustrated  by  Lucius  H.  Hitchcock. 

The  story  of  a  sensible  woman  who  keeps  within  her 
means,  refuses  to  be  swamped  by  social  engagements,  lives 
a  normal  human  life  of  varied  interests,  and  has  her  own 
romance. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 

Frontispiece  by  Allan  Gilbert. 

How  Julia  Page,  reared  in  rather  unpromising  surround- 
ings, lifted  herself  through  sheer  determination  to  a  higher 
plane  of  life. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 

Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

Rachael  is  called  upon  to  solve  many  problems,  and  in 
working  out  these,  there  is  shown  the  beauty  and  strength 
of  soul  of  one  of  fiction's  most  appealing  characters. 

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BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    lUustrated  by  Arthur^Williain  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  wa* 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    lUustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  7a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu- 
morous, tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  lUustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like"  Penrod"  and  "Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
Borne  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    lUustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re- 
volts against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love^of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
A  country  editor's  life  hi  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

.THE  FLIRT.    lUustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood 

The  "  FUrt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
.engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  reaUy 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

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THE  NOVELS  OF 

STEWARD    EDWARD   WHITE 

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THE  BLAZED  TRAIL.      Illustrated  by  Thomas  Fogarty. 

A  wholesome  story  with  gleams  of  humor,  telling  of  a  young  man 
who  blazed  his  way  to  fortune  through  the  heart  of  the  Michigan 
pines. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  NORTH.     Ills,  with  Scenes  from  the  Play. 

The  story  centers  about  a  Hudson  Bay  trading  post,  known  as 
"  The  Conjuror's  House"  (the  original  title  of  the  book.) 
THE  RIVERMAN.     Ills,  by  N.  C.  Wyeth  and  C.  F.  Underwood. 

The  story  of  a  man's  fight  against  a  river  and  of  a  struggle  be- 
tween honesty  and  grit  on  the  one  side,  and  dishonesty  and  shrewd- 
ness on  the  other. 
RULES  OF  THE  GAME.     Illustrated  by  Lejaren  A.  Killer. 

The  romance  of  the  son  of  "  The  Riverman."    The  young  college 
hero  goes  into  the  lumber  camp,  is  antagonized  by  "  graft."  and 
comes  into  the  romance  of  his  life. 
GOLD.     Illustrated  by  Thomas  Fogarty. 

The  'gold  fever  of  '49  is  pictured  with  vividness.    A  part  of  the 
Story  is  laid  in  Panama,  the  route  taken  by  the  gold-seekers. 
THE  FOREST.     Illustrated  by  Thomas  Fogarty. 

The  book  tells  of  the  canoe  trip  of  the  author  and  his  companion 
Into  the  great  woods.     Much  information  about  camping  and  out- 
door life,    A  splendid  treatise  on  woodcraft. 
THE  MOUNTAINS.      Illustrated  by  Fernand  Lungren. 

An  account  of  the  adventures  of  a  five  months'  camping  trip  la 
the  Sierras  of  California.     The  author  has  followed  a  true  sequence 
of  events. 
THE  CABIN.     Illustrated  with  photographs  by  the  author. 

A  chronicle  of  the  building  of  a  cabin  home  in  a  forest-girdled 
meadow   of  the   Sierras.    Full  of   nature  and  woodcraft,  and  the 
shrewd  philosophy  of  "California  John." 
'THE  GRAY  DAWN.      Illustrated  by  Thomas  Fogarty. 

This  book  tells  of  the  period  shortly  after  the  first  mad  rush  for 
gold  in  California.  A  young  lawyer  and  his  wife,  initiated  into  the 
gay  lif e  of  San  Francisco,  find  their  ways  parted  through  his  down- 
ward course,  but  succeeding  events  bring  the  "  gray  dawn  of  better 
things  "  for  both  of  them. 

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TITLES   SELECTED   FROM 

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RE-ISSUES  OF  THE  GREAT  LITERARY  SUCCESSES  OF  THE  TIME 
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BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  tLe  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

This  famous  Religions-Historical  Romance  with  its  mighty  story, 
brilliant  pageantry,  thrilling  action  anc  deep  religious  reverence, 
hardly  requires  an  outline.  The  whole  world  has  placed  "Ben- Hur" 
on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  time  has 
reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination. 

THE    PRINCE  OE  INDIA.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  showing,  with  vivid 
imafnnation,  the  possible  forces  Denind  the  internal  decay  of  the  Em- 
pire that  hastened  the  fall  of  Constantinople. 

The  foreground  figure  is  the  person  known  to  all  as  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  at  this  time  appearing  as  the  Prince  of  India,  with  vast 
stores  of  wealth,  and  is  supposed  to  have  instigated  many  wars  and 
fomented  the  Crusades. 

Mohammed's  love  for  the  Princess  Irene  is  beautifully  wroiighf; 
into  the  story,  and  the  book  as  a  whole  is  a  marvelous  work  both 
historically  and  romantically. 

THE  FAIR  GOD.  By  General  Lew  Wallace.  A  Tale  of  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico.  With  Eight  Illustrations  by  Eric  Pape. 

All  the  annals  of  conquest  have  nothing  more  brilliantly  daring 
and  dramatic  than  the  drama  played  in  Mexico  by  Cortes.  As  a 
dazzling  picture  of  Mexico  and  the  Montezumas  it  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

The  artist  has  caught  with  rare  enthusiasm  the  spirit  of  the 
Spanish  conquerors  of  Mexico,  its  beauty  and  glory  and  romance. 

TARRY  THOU  TILL  I  COME  or,  Salathiel,  the  Wandering 
Jew.  By  George  Croly.  With  twenty  illustrations  by  T.  de  Thulstrup 

A  historical  novel,  dealing  with  the  momentous  events  that  oc= 
curred,  chiefly  in  Palestine,  from  the  time  of  tfee  Crucifixion  to  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem. 

The  book,  as  a  story,  is  replete  with  Oriental  charm  and  richness, 
and  the  character  drawing  is  marvelous.  No  other  novel  ever  written 
has  portrayed  with  such  vividness  the  events  that  convulsed  Rome 
and  destroyed  Jerusalem  in  the  early  days  of  Christanity. 

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NOVELS   OF  SOUTHERN   LIFE 

By  THOMAS  DIXON,  JR. 

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THE  LEOPARD'S  SPOTS;        A   Story   of   the   White   Man'a 
Burden,  1865-1900.    With  illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

A  tale  of  the  South  about  the  dramatic  events  of  Destruction. 
Reconstruction  and  Upbuilding.  The  work  is  able  and  eloquent  and 
the  verifiable  events  of  history  are  followed  closely  in  the  develop* 
ment  of  a  story  full  of  struggle. 

THE  CLANSMAN.    With  illustrations  by  Arthur  L  Keller. 

While  not  connected  with  it  in  any  way,  this  is  a  companion  voT* 
time  to  the  author's  "epoch-making"  story  Thg  Leopard's  Spats.  It 
is  a  novel  with  a  great  deal  to  it,  and  which  very  properly  is  going  to 
interest  many  thousands  of  readers.  *  *  *  It  is,  first  of  all,  a  forceful, 
dramatic,  absorbing  love  story,  with  a  sequence  of  events  so  surprising 
that  one  is  prepared  for  the  fact  that  much  of  it  is  fouuded  on  actual 
happenings;  but  Mr.  Dixon  has,  as  before,  a  deeper  purpose— he  has 
aimed  to  show  that  the  original  formers  of  th«  Ku  Klux  Klan  were 
modern  knights  errant  taking  the  only  means  at  hand  to  right 
intolerable  wrongs. 

THE    TRAITOR.    A  Story  of  the  Fall  of  the  2nvi?'Ne  Empire. 
Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

The  third  and  last  book  in  this  remarkable  trilogy  of  novels  relat- 
ing to  Southern  Reconstruction.  It  is  a  thrilling  story  of  love,  ad- 
venture, treason,  and  the  United  States  Secret  Service  dealing  with 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan. 

COMRADES.    Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

A  novel  dealing  with  the  establishment  of  a  Socialistic  Colony 
upon  a  deserted  island  off  the  coast  of  California.  Tiie  way  of  dis- 
illusionment is  the  course  over  which  Mr.  Dixon  conducts  the  reader. 

THE  ONE  WOMAN.    A  Story  of  Modern  Utopia. 

A  lore  story  and  character  study  of  three  strong  men  and  two  fas- 
cinating women.  In  swift,  unified,  and  dramatic  action,  we  see  So- 
cialism a  deadly  force,  in  the  hour  of  the  eclipse  of  Faith,  destroying 
the  home  life  and  weakening  the  fiber  of  Anglo  Saxon  manhood. 

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CHARMING  BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS 

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WHEN  PATTY  WENT  TO  COLLEGE,   By  Jean  Webster. 
Illustrated  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  life  in  a  girl's  college  that  has  ever  been 
•written.  It  is  bright,  whimsical  and  entertaining,  lifelike,  laughable 
and  thoroughly  human. 

JUST   PATTY.    By  Jean  Webster.1) 
Illustrated  by  C.  M.  Relyea.1 

Patty  is  full  of  the  joy  of  living,  fun-loving,  given  to  ingenious 
mischief  for  its  own  sake,  with  a  disregard  for  pretty  convention  which 
is  an  unfailing  source  of  joy  to  her  fellows.  , 

THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL,    By  Eleanor  Gates.) 
With  four  full  page  illustrations. 

This  story  relates  the  experience  of  one  of  those  unfortunate  chil- 
dren whose  early  days  are  passed  in  the  companionship  of  a  governess, 
seldom  seeing  either  parent,  and  famishing  for  natural  love  and  tender- 
ness. A  charming  play  as  dramatized  by  the  author. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK   FARM,  „  By  Kate  Douglas 
Wiggin. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood— Rebecca's  artistic, 
unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  stand  out  midst  a  circle  of 
austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  m^Ujjpg  a  pheaominal 
dramatic  record. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA,  By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn.  ' 

Additional  episodes  in  the  girlhood  of  this  delightful  heroine  that 
carry  Rebecca  through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

REBECCA  IfARY,    By  Annie  Hamilton  DonnelL ^ 
Illustrated  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 

This  author  possesses  the  rare  gift  of  portraying  all  the  grotesque 
little  joys  and  sorrows  and  scruples  of  this  very  Rmall  girl  with  a  pa- 
thos that  is  peculiarly  genuine  and  appealing. 

EMMY  LOU;    Her  Book  and  Heart,    By  George  Madden  Martin. 
'Illustrated  by  Charles  Louis  Hintoru 

Emmy  Lou  is  irresistibly  lovable,  because  she  is  so  absolutely  real. 
She  is  just  a  bewitchingly  innocent,  hugable  little  maid.  The  book  is 
wonderfully  human. 

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been  taken  to  England,  but  spurns  conventional  life  for  the  sake 
the  untamed  West  and  a  girl's  pretty  face. 


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THE  SILENT  CALL.    By   Edwin   Milton  Royle.     Illustrated 
with  scenes  from  the  play. 

The  hero  of  this  story  is  the   Squaw  Man's   son.    He  has 
n 
of 

JOHN  MARCH,    SOUTHERNER.    By  George  W.  Cable. 

A  story  of  the  pretty  women  and  spirited  men  of  the  South. 
As  fragrant  in  sentiment  as  a  sprig  of  magnolia,  and  as  full  of 
mystery  and  racial  troubles  as  any  romance  of  "after  the  war" 
days. 

MR.  JUSTICE  RAFFLES.    By  E.  W.  Hornung. 

This  engaging  rascal  is  found  helping  a  young  cricket  player 
out  of  the  toils  of  a  money  shark.  Novel  in  plot,  thrilling  and 
amusing. 

FORTY  MINUTES  LATE.  By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.  Hl«strated 
by  S.  M.  Chase. 

Delightfully  human  stories  of  every  day  happenings;  of  a 
lecturer's  laughable  experience  because  he's  late,  a  young  woman's 
excursion  into  the  stock  market,  etc. 

OLD  LADY  NUMBER  31.    By  Louise  Forsslund. 

A  heart-  warming  story  of  American  rural  life,  telling  of  the 
adventures  of  an  old  couple  in  an  old  folk's  home,  their  sunny, 
philosophical  acceptance  of  misfortune  and  ultimate  prosperity. 

THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY.    By  David  Graham  Phillips. 

A  story  that  has  given  all  Europe  as  well  as  all  America  much 
food  for  thought.  A  young  couple  begin  life  in  humble  circum- 
stances and  rise  in  worldly  matters  until  the  husband  is  enormously 
rich—  the  wife  in  the  most  aristocratic  European  society—  but  at  the 
price  of  their  happiness. 

THE  TRATL  OF  NINETY  -EIGHT.     By  Robert  W.  Service 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia"  ever  writtem,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  stam- 
pede of  gold  seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in 
the  narrative  is  strikingly  original. 

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